


you’d break your heart to make it bigger, so why not crack your skull

by firebrands, pineapplebreads, talesofsuspense



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers Tower, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Domestic Avengers, Drunk Steve Rogers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Iron Man 3, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-01-18 16:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21279950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebrands/pseuds/firebrands, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplebreads/pseuds/pineapplebreads, https://archiveofourown.org/users/talesofsuspense/pseuds/talesofsuspense
Summary: Fresh from being fished out of the Potomac, Steve struggles with the revelation (and loss) of Bucky, and deals with his feelings in the only way he knows how: he doesn't. Most days, he tells himself it’ll all be okay, because it has to be.After moving in with Tony and getting Tony to help him look for Bucky, the cracks in Steve’s veneer begin to show. He throws himself into fights, drinks too much of Thor’s Asgardian mead, wakes up and wishes he never woke up.Steve doesn’t mean to notice the way Tony’s thigh presses against his when they watch movies together, doesn’t mean to open up to Tony about how he really feels about being Captain America and finding out his best friend is kind of not really dead, doesn’t mean to kiss him, but he does, anyway.Set post-Winter Soldier & Iron Man 3, and pre-Age of Ultron.Note: art embedded in fic.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 170
Kudos: 845
Collections: 2019 Captain America/Iron Man Big Bang





	1. between you and memory, everything is water

**Author's Note:**

> AHHH here goes!!! my first big bang!!!  
You can view art separately [here](https://pineapplebread.tumblr.com/post/189248084382/my-2019-captain-americairon-man-big-bang-drawing) & [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21535657) (note: spoilers)!
> 
> thank you to athletiger for cheer reading, rina /captainstevns who helped me figure out what I was doing and listened to me yell and freak out, and pearl for helping me work through ideas. most of all, A HUGE THANK YOU to duck for doing such a great job at beta reading (and cheering me on!) ❤️
> 
> it was also such a pleasure to work with pineapplebreads, who i am such a fan of, and mur, whose work i discovered because of this big bang! :)

Steve wakes up and keeps his eyes closed as he takes in his surroundings. It’s a habit formed from the war, and Steve relaxes as he concludes that he’s in a hospital or something similar. Steve opens his eyes to confirm, and they land immediately upon a familiar shock of dark hair by his bedside.

“Hi,” Steve says, experimentally. 

Tony flinches, then looks up quickly. “Hey, hi, you’re awake, that’s good, how are you feeling?”

Steve considers this question and notices the dull pain, everywhere. “Like a bruise,” he says. 

There are two bags attached to his IV, and wires coming out from under his chest that are attached to a big machine that beeps periodically. The rest of the room is sparse and the TV is an old one, the muted newscast coming out grainy. Outside, through the blinds, doctors and nurses putter about in the hallway. So: a civilian hospital. 

Tony reaches over to a small desk to hand Steve a glass of water. 

“Where’d you come from?” Steve asks after having a drink. All other questions are moot, at this point; it’s Tony. Steve thinks that Tony probably has JARVIS monitor the team, alert him on big enough crises. He’s probably here because he saw the helicarriers explode, and came to check on Natasha, then dropped by to check in on Steve, since he was already in the area. It’s probably just a coincidence he was here when Steve woke up.

“New York,” Tony says, tilting his head a little as he regards Steve. “How’d you get out of the water?”

“I—” Steve starts, stops. “That’s a good question,” he finishes, smiling sheepishly. He remembers the fight, the explosion, but that’s it. He didn’t even know about the water.

What settles in his mind, now that he’s fully awake, is the memory of Bucky looming over him, wailing down punches. This is the first time since he’d seen Bucky on the highway that Steve has had time to breathe and really think about the newest reality in his life: Bucky is alive. 

Bucky is alive, and _ Bucky wanted to kill him. _

Bucky, the one person in the world who had stayed with Steve through everything. Bucky, who had fallen all those years (_ decades _ , he reminds himself) ago. Who Steve had believed to be dead. But he was never dead, and Steve had abandoned him, and maybe Steve did deserve to be punched to unconsciousness. But he also deserved to talk to Bucky, at the very least. He _ needed _ to talk to Bucky.

Lying on those white sheets, the smell of antiseptic making Steve feel dizzy, he knows, deep in his bones, that he’d be dead before he ever stopped looking for his best friend.

“Don’t do that again,” Tony says, cutting in to Steve’s thoughts as he leans back into his seat. Tony’s hand rises to his chest to rub at it.

Steve is familiar with the motion, and that’s the only time he realizes: “What happened to your—” he says, as he gestures to his own sternum. 

Tony lets out a small huff of laughter. “Oh, you know. Got tired of it.” 

Steve furrows his brow, expecting more of an answer, and chiding himself for not noticing the entirety of the man seated beside him. Gone is the bright light that emanated from his chest, and Steve wants to know why, and how, and when? But he doesn’t know if he can ask those questions, or if he did, if Tony would answer them. It’s a strange thing that Tony is here at all, really.

So instead, Steve says, “Oh, sure. Don’t fall into bodies of water, Steve, but I’ll go right ahead and remove my life-preserving tech.”

Tony shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. “How about we reserve story time for when you’ve fully recovered, huh?” 

Steve grunts, but nods anyway: “Fine.”

They sink into a comfortable silence, waiting for the doctor to arrive. Steve’s itching to go, though—to tell Tony about Bucky, because if anyone would be able to help him, Tony seems like the best option.

Steve flexes his hand with the IV on it, and Tony’s hand covers his to stop the motion. 

“Don’t,” Tony says, so Steve doesn’t, mostly surprised by the gesture and the tingle of electricity that races up his arm.

*

Steve expects a lot of things. It’s in his nature to be prepared. There’s nothing he can do in Washington, what with Natasha spilling everything on the internet and journalists requesting interviews at every turn. So he packs up his things, pre-terminates his apartment lease, and tells Sam that he plans on looking for Bucky.

He doesn’t expect Tony to offer him a place in Stark Tower, but he recalibrates and accepts pretty quickly; besides, New York was always home, anyway. Steve didn’t think Tony took their conversation at the hospital too seriously, but Tony’s text reads: _ Just stay in the tower, Cap. You owe me a story. _

Tony isn’t home when Steve arrives, so Steve feels free to gape at how the space has changed from the last time he was there. Gone is the dark wood, now replaced by steel and glass. It’s like nothing happened. That’s the nature of the world nowadays, Steve has noticed.

Steve unpacks his bag efficiently and settles into what JARVIS had told him was his floor by rearranging some of the furniture (one couch, two settees, a desk and chair), then eventually putting them back. 

From here, Steve can see all the way to Brooklyn, and he feels a bit funny, to be standing in a high rise with all this expensive furniture, when a few years ago, his apartment could’ve fit inside his current bedroom. Steve scrunches up his face and looks around the room again.

He feels antsy, but doesn’t want to go exploring alone. He looks over the tablet on his bedside, but doesn’t know what to do with it. There are no reports to be written, and it seems preemptive to use Tony’s tech to look for Bucky without Tony even knowing about it (or at least, knowing about it from Steve—he’s under no allusions that Tony doesn’t know about what happened in DC, but. There are probably parts only Steve can tell). 

“JARVIS?” Steve says, looking around his room.

“How may I help, Captain Rogers?”

“Is there anyone else in the tower?” Steve asks. “Or, uh, would you know when Tony’ll be here?” He adds.

“Currently Dr. Banner is in India, Agent Romanoff in Washington, Thor remains off-world, and Agent Barton has requested that his location not be disclosed unless completely necessary. Sir should be arriving shortly.”

“Thank you, JARVIS,” Steve says, taking a turn about the room.

“Always a pleasure, Captain.”

Steve picks up the tablet again and heads to the communal floor, hoping to catch Tony as soon as he arrives. He sits on one of the plush white leather couches and looks through the news about the information Natasha had dumped. Seems like a good a starting point as any.

*

“Glad to see you’ve settled in.” Steve starts up from his reading at the sound of Tony’s voice.

“Tony,” Steve sets the tablet aside to stand up. “Thank you,” he says. Tony waves him off and heads towards the kitchen.

Steve follows and leans against the marble counter as Tony presses some buttons on what Steve assumes to be the coffee machine. The rest of the kitchen is done in light wood and acrylic. It looks, in Steve’s opinion, too clean to be a kitchen. 

“How was your flight?”

“It was fine,” Steve says. “Look, Tony, I wanted to talk about DC,” he adds quickly. 

Steve doesn’t want to waste any more time than he already has. Every minute, Bucky slips deeper and deeper into obscurity, and Steve has had enough time to prepare himself to ask for Tony’s help (not that he didn’t want it, or think he needed it, it’s just—). 

“Okay, cutting to the chase, all right,” Tony says, smiling as he pours himself a cup of coffee. “Lay it on me.” 

So Steve does. Tells him about Fury, his apartment, about seeing Bucky, the fights, finding out about Hydra. Tony plays the perfect audience, listening in rapt attention and asking questions when Steve pauses. Steve isn’t used to this, at least not from Tony, who barely gives conversations enough attention to finish a sentence. Steve talks, and talks, and talks, and Tony nods along as he reaches into a cupboard to pull out a bag of chips or pour cups of coffee for them both. 

Steve is wrapping up his story, and Tony, who had removed his jacket sometime earlier, now loosens his tie, and begins to roll up his sleeves. Steve’s eyes track the movement of Tony’s hands, and Steve only realizes he's stopped talking when Tony looks up at Steve from under his lashes, hand still on a partially rolled sleeve. “And then?” he prompts. Steve starts, then looks away, clearing his throat.

“And then I woke up in the hospital, and you know the rest,” Steve finishes. 

Tony nods gravely. “That’s a fuck ton to process, Cap,” he says. “So, I guess you want my help finding Barnes?”

Steve feels something warm pool in his stomach at Tony’s choice of words: _ want, not need; Barnes, not Bucky. _

“Yeah, if you could,” Steve says.

“If? _ If? _” Tony scoffs and pulls out his phone, tapping on the screen quickly. Steve takes this opportunity to take a quick survey of what’s in the kitchen—outside, the sun is beginning to set and he wants dinner now, not just snacks.

“There. I’ve set up a tracker and I’m having JARVIS filter through everything Natasha sent out to the world,” Tony says. “That should be a start.”

Steve lets out a small, relieved sigh. “Thank you, Tony. Really.”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine, of course, anything,” Tony says quickly, averting his gaze and fidgeting with his phone again.

Steve has assembled ingredients for spaghetti on the kitchen counter, which Tony notices.

“Oh, Cap, no. We can get take out. Where did you even find these—” he holds up a mushroom and looks at it dubiously.

“Come on, it’s your turn. You talk, I cook. Should be easy enough,” he says, unpeeling a shallot.

“If you’re sure,” Tony says, making a face. “You really don’t have to.”

“You really want to talk to me about things we did or didn’t have to do?”

“Okay, fine. At least let me help—” Steve swats away Tony’s hand. 

“You talk. I’ll cook.”

“Okay, okay,” Tony says, sounding annoyed. But Steve’s looking directly at Tony, and that’s the only reason he sees the small upwards curl of Tony’s lips, so Steve smiles back at him before he begins chopping.

*

Steve flips through the consolidated reports on Winter Soldier sightings again, checking to see if he’d missed anything. For two months now, all Steve had done was read and wait for updates. Slowly, the rest of the Avengers had found their way into the tower; still, only Steve and Tony remained permanent fixtures while everyone else filtered in and out. 

“I just don’t understand how we haven’t found him,” Steve says. Sam is puttering around the communal floor somewhere, and Steve feels… he feels tired. Impatient. Put out.

“He has literally kept himself in the shadows for decades, man,” Sam says, from the kitchen. “If It were easy then I don’t think he’d be such a good assassin, you know?”

It took a while for Steve to really accept that was Bucky (not is). But for Steve to remain willfully ignorant of the things Bucky had done while being brainwashed was idiotic, so he stopped wringing his hands about it and decided to focus his energy on finding Bucky, instead. He tells himself that he’ll read all of the SHIELD/HYDRA files JARVIS has tagged as Winter Soldier related once they finally find him—if it wasn’t all in the file Natasha had given him, already.

Steve makes a small, whiny sound, just for himself. He hates not being able to do anything, hates waiting. He’s always been a man of action, and to be forced into a state of inaction makes him antsy. 

All he wants is to find Bucky.

“I hate not being able to do anything,” Steve says, simply.

“I hear you,” Sam says, a laugh in his voice. “But you are, though. You’re looking. You’re reading up about everything that we know about him, what HYDRA knows. I think that’s something,” Sam says, his voice shifting to a more soothing tone. Steve clicks his tongue in response, doesn’t correct Sam, and keeps reading.

*

Sam can always tell when something’s off. Not to discredit the rest of the team; they know too, after everything, it’s impossible not to know. But Sam, Sam’s just about as stubborn as Steve, and he won’t stop until Steve’s acknowledged that thinking and feeling about something for an hour isn’t enough to fully deal with the issue.

So, Sam can always tell, and this is probably why he ambushes Steve after dinner. Steve is in the kitchen boiling a pot of tea for the rest of the team as they settle in to watch a movie.

“How are you?” 

Steve would’ve prickled at the earnestness of the tone if it were anyone else, but it’s Sam, so he just sighs and says, “I’m fine, Sam.”

“Okay,” Sam says, leaning against the kitchen counter and scrolling through his phone. Steve frowns, noting Sam’s feigned indifference.

“I don’t really know what to talk about, if that’s what you want to hear,” Steve grumbles.

“Man,” Sam looks up from his phone to give Steve a once over, “I don’t want to hear anything, if you don’t wanna talk about it,” he says, looking back at his phone.

“There really isn’t—I don’t know, okay? I think I’m managing. I’ve been trying to write about it like you told me, but I can’t get anything out of my head.”

Sure, they’d all been working together and living together, but there was only so much anyone could do to address all the trust issues that had calcified through the years. At least, that’s what Sam had observed and told Steve; Steve was inclined to agree, but wouldn’t ever say it out loud. 

Captain America, Steve Rogers, bastions of truth, loyalty, and justice. It wasn’t an expectation that Captain America trusted inherently in the goodness of people and are nothing but open and kind—it was a fact. One Steve felt the burden of maintaining more heavily on some days. 

Sam shrugs. “Okay. I hope you keep trying.”

“I will,” Steve says, and means it. He turns back to the kettle that’s beginning to sing, and they both walk back to the team together. Steve feels the beginnings of doubt (fear) niggling somewhere below his heart. So, maybe, fine: _ write about your feelings _, he thinks. Couldn’t hurt. There are worse ways to deal with your feelings.


	2. there is no single moment of loss, there is an amassing

Steve wakes up and keeps his eyes closed as he takes in his surroundings. Steve’s used to hospital rooms and clinics at this point, and can tell from the way the air conditioning hum is low, the beeps from the monitoring machines a different pitch (because Tony insists on tinkering with everything) that he’s most likely in the clinic in the tower.

Steve cracks an eye open to check. He’s right.

Tony is standing by the window, looking out into the night.

“Hi,” Steve says. His voice is rough, his throat dry.

Tony whips around. “_You _—” he’s quite close to snarling, “—fucking idiot,” he says, jabbing his finger onto Steve’s sore chest, enunciating each word. “And they tell me I’m the one with a deathwish!” 

“It’s fine, though. I’m fine,” Steve says, wrapping his hand around Tony’s finger and lifting it off his chest. “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine _ now_!” Tony continues, snatching his hand away from Steve’s and throwing his hands in the air. “Jesus Christ, Steve. They were just HYDRA agents.”

“That’s why I—” 

“No, no, no, you do _ not _get to explain your way out of this,” Tony snaps, cutting him off. “Look. I get it, okay? I get that these are the guys that hurt Bucky, and you just want to find him.” Tony sighs, takes a deep breath, and exhales, before continuing. “But what you did back there, taking them all on unnecessarily—you and I both know that isn’t the way to find him.” Tony’s voice has softened considerably, and he’s fumbling absently with the hem of Steve’s blanket.

“Okay,” Steve says, turning away from Tony to check the time on the clock. He sees the movement of Tony’s hands in his periphery, and feels inexplicably irritated by it. He reaches over to still the motion. “Don’t,” he says. So Tony doesn’t.

They’re quiet, and Steve cautiously regards the way Tony hasn’t moved his hand away from under Steve’s. 

Then, as if he’d read his mind, Tony moves his hand away. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, sarcasm dripping in his tone.

Steve feels annoyance flare in his stomach, but stays silent. He doesn’t know why the conversation has taken this turn. Tony was just talking to him kindly, which was admittedly strange but certainly not unwelcome, given that Steve is pretty sure there’s still a bullet hole healing somewhere near his stomach.

“Really? Not even a ‘sorry’ for making me save your dumb ass?” Tony’s eyebrows are knitted together. “Thanks for staunching the blood, sorry I bled all over the quinjet and almost caused you a heart attack, sorry I almost died, Tony,” Tony adds mockingly. “Any of those will do.”

Steve’s jaw tightens, and this, _ this _ is familiar, Tony needling at him and trying to get him to fight. But all the fight that’s left in Steve he’s conserving for HYDRA, for Bucky.

So he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t say thank you, doesn’t apologize. There’s no reason for either sentiment. They’re back where they started, and Steve is alive. Steve bites down on his tongue and doesn’t talk about how everything they’ve done has been worth nothing so far, about how he expected to have something other than smoke and mirrors. Stops himself from sneering: _ So the great Tony Stark, genius extraordinaire, can’t find one man on this planet monitored by Stark technology_. 

Instead, Steve looks down, picks imaginary lint off his blanket, and shuts his eyes when Tony sighs loudly and leaves.

*

It only takes a day or so for Steve to fully heal up, and in those hours that Steve is awake, he continues to read through Natasha’s files, trying to piece things together, to make sense of it all. By now it’s midnight, and Steve feels lonely, exhausted from all the reports about death. 

Only Tony’s awake (of course it’s Tony, Steve thinks, shaking his head at Tony’s sheer disregard for his health, and at that, Steve realizes the irony of the sentiment), so Steve takes the elevator down to the workshop and spends around a minute staring through the glass walls.

He’s seen a lot of crazy things in his life—Red Skull, Zola’s computer brain complex, _ aliens coming out of a wormhole _ —but Tony’s workshop is a marvel he never would have dreamt up. There are so many machines, all clean lines and smooth movement, working at absurd precision as they whir around and build. Big, blue holograms with Tony’s designs, blown up with their measurements displayed on glass. Movie makers couldn’t come up with this in their wildest dreams, and Tony had thought this all up and _ built it _. Steve can’t help but be impressed (and he realizes, with faint horror, that when it comes to Tony, it’s not that hard to be amazed, anyway).

“Captain Rogers?” JARVIS prompts gently. 

Steve is jolted out of his thoughts and types in his code. “I feel the need to warn you that Sir has not slept in 36 hours,” JARVIS says, right before Steve pushes the door open.

“Thanks, JARVIS,” Steve says as he enters the workshop.

Tony turns to look at the door, surprised by the sound. “Hey Cap. What do you need?” Tony’s voice is light, but his stance is tense. Clearly he hasn’t gotten over their conversation. Behind him, machines continue to assemble and construct.

“Just wanted some company,” Steve answers, hoping for softness. He may be healed enough to move around, but he isn’t in the mood to fight. He walks to where Tony is standing, curious to see the technology at work. Tony tracks his movement with his eyes, but doesn’t budge.

“Might be the wrong kind,” Tony jokes, but Steve can tell he means it, sort of.

“Well as it stands, there’s not much company to go around,” Steve counters, smiling at Tony, trying to keep the mood light.

“Aw Cap, you sure know how to make a fella feel real special,” Tony says, rolling his eyes, but there’s a hint of fondness.

“Least I could do if I almost gave him a heart attack,” and the admission spills so easily out of his mouth that they stand in stunned silence for a moment.

Tony begins to laugh, a nervous, half-hysterical thing. “Oh, wow” he says. “Christ.”

Steve looks pointedly away, feeling incredibly self-conscious. He doesn’t know why he said what he did, but he’d said it. “I mean, it’s true,” he huffs.

“Oh, _ Steve_,” Tony’s just about wheezing now, and Steve can’t tell if it’s from relief that Steve acknowledged what happened or if he’s returning to his earlier hysteria. Steve hopes it the former, and finds himself beginning to smile as he watches Tony, doubled over, laughing. “Steve, Steve, Steve,” Tony says, thumping Steve’s back, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

Steve ruffles Tony’s hair, and Tony digs his face into Steve’s shoulder, giggling a little, still.

“I like it when you call me that,” Steve realizes and says out loud at the same time.

Tony looks up at him, eyes bright. “Okay, Steve.”

*

Steve is sprawled out on the couch in the workshop. “You know about Operation Paperclip,” he says, and it’s not really a question. He’s reading through Natasha’s file again.

“Yes!” Tony shouts from the workbench. “Why!”

“Did they try to recreate the serum?”

“Probably!”

Steve mulls over everything he’s read so far as Tony putters around the workshop, talking to JARVIS and firing up a welding torch.

“Please put on shoes,” Steve says idly. He turns on his tablet and pulls up the dossier on Zola, reading through the projects he worked on as a SHIELD scientist (again).

Tony continues to weld, and continues to remain shoeless.

“Tony,” Steve scolds gently. 

Tony sighs heavily, turns off his torch, and pads over to Steve. 

“Sorry mom,” Tony says as he plops down beside Steve. He takes a long drink of the coffee he’d left on the table and holds out a hand. Steve gives him the tablet and rubs his eyes, tired from the exposure to the screen.

“I did some digging through Howard’s stuff. I think he was trying to make it too. Got pretty close, I think,” Tony says, completely nonchalant.

“What? No,” Steve says, disbelief coloring his tone. “That’s impossible.”

“Says the man who was literally frozen in ice,” Tony smirks. “I think we’re way past the point of ever using that word anymore, Steve.”

“If Howard did remake the serum, then how come there aren’t more… super soldiers?” Steve pauses at the phrase. It still feels strange to refer to people (himself) that way.

“We don’t know that there aren’t any,” Tony says, flicking through the reports on Steve’s tablet.

Steve considers this. “But. Remember what I told you? When Natasha and I were in that bunker. Zola was saying that accidents happened. ‘When history didn’t cooperate, history was changed.’ Then he showed us newsreels of the car crash—”

“But that’s all it was,” Tony says, and Steve notices the edge to Tony’s voice. “It was an accident. Besides, I’m pretty sure Howard would have more notes about it if he succeeded. He’d be too proud not to have that plastered everywhere.”

Steve snorts. “Sounds about right.”

Tony rolls his eyes in agreement at the memory of his father.

Steve shrugs. “Well. Maybe you’re right. Maybe Zola was just trying to get a rise out of me.”

“Sounds like it worked.”

*

Steve doesn’t realize how upset he is until he notices his hands are bleeding.

But it’s fine. Really. They’ll find Bucky eventually, somehow, and it’ll be fine. At least he’s _ alive _. And then they’ll find him and it will be fine. It’s just a matter of time. 

This is a mantra he’s learned to chant to himself when the bile begins to rise up his throat, when he thinks of what Bucky would have done for him, has done for him. When he thinks of how he still hasn’t found him.

Steve winces as he peels the wraps off his bloody knuckles. He only notices someone else is in the room when he hears a low whistle.

“You wanna hug it out?” Tony says, and there’s a smirk to his voice. 

Steve scoffs as he throws the cloth in the bin. “If anyone needs to hug out their issues, I think you’d be first in line.”

Tony laughs, full and vibrant. “Well, fuck you too!” he says, shaking his head as he climbs onto a treadmill.

Steve gives him a small wave as he leaves, a tiny part of him reveling in the pain that registers at the movement.

*

After the first HYDRA cell he and Tony had broken into, Steve had, in Tony’s words, “Gone fucking HAM.” So they’d decided to call in the rest of the team for the next one. And now, they’re not just looking for Bucky, but for the tesseract, too.

So the team comes together, more and more, and eventually, it’s not just Tony and Steve in the tower. Steve spars with Natasha, learns to play videogames with Clint, finally figures out what Pilates is with Bruce, and then, one fateful night, drinks with Thor. It’s one of the few times Steve sleeps straight through until morning.

Thor shows up from Asgard with little fanfare, and it’s as the team is filtering into the kitchen mid-afternoon that he pulls carefully placed six flasks on the counter. They’re wrought steel, with ornate swirls and alien artwork.

“I bring gifts!” Thor announces brightly. They all pick up a flask, examining them closely. “The finest Asgardian mead, for Earth’s mightiest warriors.”

“Are you serious?” Bruce unscrews the cap and takes an experimental sniff just as Tony unscrews the cap of his and takes a shot.

“Oh _ god,_” Tony moans, holding a hand to his chest. “This is. This is, this is,” he says, eyes closed in pleasure. “This is _ fucking magnificent_.”

Thor beams. “I am glad you enjoy it, friend Anthony!” he says, unscrewing his own flask and taking a long pull. Natasha eyes hers dubiously, and Clint smirks as he takes a sip from his own.

“Oh Jesus, Thor,” Clint says, happiness plain on his face.

“Thank you, Thor,” Steve says self-consciously, noticing how no one’s actually verbally expressed their gratitude. “This is a great gift.”

“Wait until you taste it, Cap,” Tony says, drinking from his again. Steve hefts his flask from one hand to another.

Then, around them, the alarm sounds. “Looks like we have to save the drinks for later,” Steve says, making sure Thor sees Steve pocket his flask; he wants Thor to know they appreciate it. 

Steve nods at everyone. “See you at the hangar in 10 minutes,” he says before leaving to get dressed.

*

HYDRA base after HYDRA base, and nothing about Bucky. Steve has a map in his bedside drawer, defeated cells marked in red. There’s no pattern, no path. All this technology, facial recognition, tracking, police report monitoring, and somehow: still nothing.

Steve lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling, barely blinking as the shadows shift to light.

*

Steve can’t sleep. Again. He oscillates between his sketchbook, the TV, the reports on his tablet but nothing keeps his attention, and nothing helps him feel any less keyed up. Steve sits on his bed and surveys his room, and his eyes land on the small flask of mead Thor had given each of them.

He feels a bit manic, and just wants to rest. He’s afraid of what he might do if he goes too long without sleep, if it’s possible for him to get unhinged. He doesn’t want to find out. He just wants to sleep and wake up tomorrow with renewed vigor to find his best friend.

So Steve stares at the flask and thinks, a bit desperately:_ that might work. It worked the last time_.

*

Steve feels light. For the first time in a long time, warmth has spread over his chest, and he feels loose. Nothing matters. The flask, small as it is, refills as it empties, and _ wow_, he loves magic and would love to see the way Tony’s eyebrows would knit trying to figure that one out.

He ambles out of his bedroom to look for a snack, but finds his refrigerator empty. Cupboards, too. Why is there an empty Doritos bag on the floor? Steve pockets the flask and exits his apartment, telling JARVIS to bring him to the communal floor. For sure they have some chocolate in there.

*

“Steven Grant Rogers. Are you _ drunk_?”

Steve looks up from the fridge. “Huh?”

Tony is leaning lazily against the door of the kitchen, smirking down at Steve.

“Don’t ‘_huh’ _ me, buddy,” Tony says, walking over to Steve. “And on Thor’s mead, too. Care to share?”

“Only a little for you,” Steve says honestly, as he continues to dig around the fridge for something that entices him.

Tony lets out a small noise of pleasure and Steve looks up as he takes a drink from the flask; Steve watches the way Tony’s throat moves intently for a second, then catches himself. 

They drink some more, and somehow they end up on the balcony overlooking the tower, Steve cradling a bowl of reheated pasta to his chest. Beside him, Tony is lying on a lounge chair, eyes half lidded as he smiles over New York like it’s his kingdom (which, Steve notes, it maybe kinda is). 

They’re quiet, and then Steve asks JARVIS to play some music (not Tony’s), and the air is filled with the sweet notes of showtunes. Tony rolls his eyes and shakes his head at the music. “Oklahoma? Really?” 

Steve closes his eyes and hums along as he takes another swig from the flask. “Never had the time to catch it when it was on Broadway,” he says, smiling.


	3. dreaming of an afterlife that revised flesh

Steve wakes up on his bed with a jolt. According to the clock on his bedside, it’s eight in the morning, and he doesn’t remember how he got back to his room or taking off his shoes. Oh, _ jeez_, he thinks to himself, massaging his temples with his hand. 

Steve makes his way to his small kitchenette, sets out a pan, some eggs, and pulls meatloaf out of the cupboard. His brain continues to throb as he waits for the pan to heat up and for the oil to sizzle, and when he cracks open the egg to fry, he runs to the toilet, dry heaving from the smell.

Steve hasn’t felt this ill since the 40s, and hasn’t been drunk since then, either. He digs around the refrigerator for the drink Natasha had brought home for them from her trip to Tokyo. She’d told them enthusiastically that it was great for rehydration… Steve finally finds the plastic bottle filled with misty-white liquid. It sounds gross: _ Pocari Sweat_. Steve remembers Clint saying the same, but Steve knows his body is in desperate need for electrolytes, so he downs it in one go. It tastes sweet-ish, with an undertone of acidity, but he drinks it too quickly for him to really care about it.

His head still feels fuzzy, and he drags himself back to bed, then asks JARVIS if Tony’s up. He knows it’s a futile effort at this time of day, but asks anyway, just in case.

*

Steve finds Tony later in the afternoon in his workshop. He knocks on the glass panel and holds up a cup of coffee. Tony grins at him and waves him in, and Steve hands over the coffee before taking the opportunity to once again appreciate Tony’s workshop.

There’s so much information scattered about the multiple panes of glass (they’re monitors, not just displays, Steve realizes belatedly), calculations running and being processed into lines of zeroes and ones. On the workbenches are neat illustrations of the armor and its ammunition, and one showing a blown up boot with what Steve assumes to be adjustments to the wiring. 

“Wow,” Steve says. 

Tony’s grin gets even bigger. “I know,” Tony says, and takes a sip of the coffee.

Steve marvels for a bit more at all the technology around him, then remembers why he came. “About last night,” he starts, and Tony holds up a hand. 

“All good, buddy. I’m just glad you didn’t pass out on me, or else we’d have really been in trouble,” he says, and gives Steve’s bicep two quick pats.

Steve scratches the back of his neck, feeling incredibly shy. “Well, I don’t think it’ll happen again. Still, I’m sorry for being a bother.”

“Absolutely not. If it were up to me that would happen even more,” Tony laughs, slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulling him close. “Seriously, feel free to bother me any time.”

Steve shakes his head, embarrassed, but also finds himself leaning into Tony’s half-hug.

“Do you know how much self control it took me not to take a video of you singing ‘Oklahoma’? Let me tell you, Steve. I should get an award for my self control.”

Steve laughs, feels his cheeks color. “Oh god, I didn’t,” he says, covering his face and laughing.

“You absolutely, one hundred percent, belted out that chorus, and it was one of the most magnificent things I’ve ever witnessed,” Tony says, chin jutted up, as if daring Steve to question him. Steve laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

*

Later that night, fully recovered and back in bed, Steve realizes two things. First, that he’d referred to the tower as _ home_, in his hungover search for hydration. Second, that he and Tony were friends, now. They’d been friends for a while, really, stopped snapping at each other somewhere between HYDRA bases and cups of coffee on the balcony. Steve had stopped thinking of Tony as a flippant jerk who goaded him into arguments just for laughs, and instead saw Tony’s sarcasm as his own form of protection. They’d never agreed to stop fighting, never said anything about how they’d actually gotten along when they weren’t thinking about it.

It was nice.

Still, Steve fell into a fitful sleep. 

*

“Hey, Steve, buddy, come on,” The world is blurry. Everything is blurry. Steve’s eyelids are heavy, so he closes his eyes because he’s tired and everything is blurry. 

“Hey, come on.” Someone is tugging his sleeve so Steve opens his eyes a bit, if only to inspect. “Wha?” he mumbles.

“That’s good, hi, hello, hey, hey,” a constant stream of noise. Words. _ It’s words, Steve_ , Steve says to himself, because he’s a fucking idiot. _ Sleep will fix it_, his body says, and he’s inclined to agree. 

“—you’re so fucking heavy, Jesus Christ, no more Doritos for you, no more _ anything_ for you after tonight, Rogers, so help me—”

Cold. Wet. Steve opens his eyes long enough for his vision to clear and in front of him: Tony, holding an empty glass.

Steve pinches his eyes closed and lets out a small moan of frustration. _ Go away_. Why is everything so bright. Blurry was easy.

Again: Cold, wet, Tony, now with a significantly deeper scowl to his face. _ Whatever_, Steve thinks. _ Whatever_. 

“Steve,” a hiss close to his ear, now, warm and tingly. “Steven fucking Rogers, get the fuck up.”

“No,” Steve says, leaning back and then: ouch. “Ouch,” he says, helpfully.

So, now, a hand around his back, valiantly trying to make its way across his shoulders. He has broad shoulders. Tony said so. Steve knows so. Not just because Tony said, but Tony said so too, so, it’s doubly true, possibly. Anyway. Just a few minutes. He’s so tired. He’s been so, so tired. He’ll rest for a few minutes, and then he’ll get up.

*

Steve wakes up very, very slowly. His legs are splayed out in front of him. His eyelids are heavy. Beside him, a weight. Dark hair, scuffed loafers. _ Oh god._

“Tony,” Steve says, and his voice comes out infinitely calmer than he feels. 

Tony looks up from his phone.

“What in the hell,” Steve says, standing up on wobbly knees. He steadies himself against the drawer he’s leaning against before helping Tony up. His back has a crick from sitting on the floor and in the places where the handles of the drawer that dug into it, but the pain grounds him. 

“What the hell?” he says, again, uselessly, but mostly just to have something to say out loud. Inside, fear roils in his belly: Not again, not again, _ please, not again_, _ why do you keep doing this to yourself. _

Tony scrubs at his face, as if mopping away frustration. It doesn’t help, and Tony continues to scowl at Steve. “Let’s just head up,” he says, and begins stalking away, barely casting a backward glance at Steve to make sure he was following.

Steve distinctly hates this feeling. The need to remember, pick up the small fragments of lucidity from the night before. He was drinking alone in his apartment, and he remembers stumbling into the elevator, laughing at the absurdity that he was talking to a robot in the ceiling, and that robot was going to bring him down to Tony. _ Tony, Tony, Tony,_ he remembers thinking, fingers around the flask as he propped himself up against the glass door of the workshop to punch in his access code.

“What happened?” Steve asks. Part of him just wants to ask JARVIS for the footage, to stew in the shame while alone in his room, but he also doesn’t want to leave while Tony’s visibly upset.

“Let’s just talk in the morning,” Tony says, almost at the door of the lab now. He hasn’t turned to look at Steve at all. _ That’s fair_, Steve thinks. Maybe tomorrow morning they’ll just never talk about it, which would be better.

“Actually. No. Now. What the fuck,” Tony says, suddenly whirling around. He moves as if to take a step forward then stops, taken aback when he sees the look on Steve’s face.

“Okay,” Steve says. His brain has woken up fully from his stupor, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Only now does he realize he’d been following after Tony, and he notices how close they are. Tony’s eyes are red-rimmed from a lack of sleep, his hair a bit flatter on the side he’d been on, leaning against Steve’s shoulder. _ Somehow still handsome_, Steve thinks dazedly, and the thought comes then slips away so fast, that he doesn’t think on it.

“Are you okay? Like. Inside. Because I’m getting worried about you,” Tony’s eyes flick to Steve’s face again for half a second before he looks away, and Steve is both grateful and pained. “What do you mean ‘okay’?” 

“I don’t,” Steve starts, stops, takes a breath. “I’m okay.”

“No. Don’t lie,” Tony says, and the implication, while totally true in this moment, causes rage bubble up from Steve’s stomach and turns into acid. 

“I’m not _ lying_,” Steve sneers. 

“Oh? Too good for that?” Tony says sharply. “Too good to lie or be a fuck up like the rest of us mere mortals?” 

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply to keep his misplaced anger in check. “I said I’m fine.”

“Fuck your ‘fine,’” Tony snaps. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing!” Steve nearly shouts. “I said I’m fine! Can’t I just let loose once in a while?”

Tony opens his mouth, closes it. A look of pain flashes over his face so quickly Steve barely catches it, but it’s enough to quell the anger flaring in his chest. Steve was trying to sound convincing, but now, he realizes, he didn’t know who he was trying to convince.

“Don’t,” Tony says. 

“Don’t what?” Steve snaps reflexively. For all the ground they’d covered in their new friendship, it’s almost too easy to fall back into this old pattern of pushing each other’s buttons.

“Don’t do this to yourself.” Tony looks serious. Steve can count how many times he’s seen that look on Tony’s face, and it makes him uneasy to see it turned on him.

“I’m not doing anything.” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s fine.”

“Stop _ saying that_,” Tony says, anger once again coloring his words. “God, it’s like you don’t know who you’re talking to. Hasn’t anyone told you? Don’t bullshit the bullshitter.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do, how he can come out of this as the right one.

Tony is looking away, breathing deeply.

“I didn’t ask you—” Steve starts.

“Oh fuck you, Rogers,” Tony says sharply as he turns to stare up at Steve. “Christ. I never thought I’d be talking Captain America out of drinking.” 

Tony lets out a mirthless laugh; Steve starts at the sound, at the accusation. He’s not Captain America, not now. Captain America didn’t do things like this. Steve Rogers—maybe he could. Last night, as he drank, and drank, and drank, he had thought, pathetically to himself, that maybe Steve Rogers was allowed to be this. To do things like this. Was allowed to make mistakes and be sad and not deal with his problems. But those were the thoughts of a drunk man. And so, Steve discards them.

Tony shakes his head, and he’s disappointed, and Steve hates that, hates that he knows that, hates that he deserves to be disappointed in.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you this,” Tony says, and his shoulders, initially squared for a fight, sag. “But you don’t have to ask.”

It takes Steve a moment to reorient himself, realize what Tony means by that. Steve bites his lip, but doesn’t say that he’s never wanted to rely on anyone, that he can get by on his own. Even that truth, however glaring it seems to Tony, is something Steve isn’t ready to say out loud.

Tony rolls his eyes, as if understanding that for now, the fight is over. Steve feels himself relax.

“No more mead for you.” Tony holds out his hand, motioning for Steve to hand over the flask. Steve feels his jaw tighten with the renewed flush of irritation, but fights it down. This time, Tony’s right, he reminds himself. He hands over the flask and reaches behind Tony to press the exit button to the workshop. 

Tony’s hand is tight around the flask as he turns back to the door, pushes it open, and they part at the hallway.

*

Tony finds Steve sitting on the balcony, nursing a cup of coffee. Steve doesn’t acknowledge him, keeps his eyes on the skyline.

“Hey,” Tony says, and Steve notices that his voice is sleep-strained and rough.

Steve turns to look at Tony. “Hi,” he says.

They’re quiet, for a moment. Ella Fitzgerald is singing softly over the speakers: _ It's not the pale moon that excites me, that thrills and delights me…_

Tony takes a seat beside Steve, and Steve turns back to look at the soft glow emanating from all over the city. He feels Tony shiver and shift closer to him. 

Steve hides a smile by taking a sip of his coffee, but presses his leg against Tony’s, enjoying the warmth. Their fight earlier seems far away, now, and Steve doesn’t want to bring it up, content to just let those words stay in the workshop, where they can get sorted and filed away, like all other data down there.

“I shouldn’t have snapped,” Tony says, softly. Steve hums in response, a bit surprised at the sincerity in Tony’s voice. “I’m sorry,” Tony says, ducking his head.

Steve nods, a big enough movement that he knows registers in Tony’s periphery. Tony is quiet.

He bristles at the pregnant silence, understands it for what it is: Tony expecting an apology, too. Steve takes a sip of coffee, stalling. He didn’t do anything wrong, he rationalizes. He didn’t hurt anyone, he just got drunk and took a nap. And what has Tony done, anyway? They’re nowhere close to finding Bucky, and if Steve is being honest, finding Bucky would fix everything—Steve’s thoughts stop when Tony shifts and the cold air seeps into the space between them. Steve sighs.

“God, Steve,” Tony says, and he sounds sad, but that can’t be right, Tony has no reason to be sad, he doesn’t have a horse in this race. 

Steve doesn’t want to look at him, so he doesn’t. Truthfully, he’s afraid of seeing the look on Tony’s face, the hurt that’s probably there. It’s too naked an emotion, after their fight. Their first one as actual friends, Steve thinks. 

He feels, in a word, bad.

They sink back into quiet for a while, but the air is thick around them. Steve feels uncomfortable, but doesn’t know what to do about it, anxiety tying knots in his stomach. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to do anything about it.

What he does know is that he wants Tony to stay.

As if hearing this realization, Tony sighs and stands up. “Well. This has been unpleasant,” he says, his voice light, as if he were joking. 

Steve reaches out and pulls Tony back down to sit. He isn’t thinking at all when he whispers, “Me too.”

Tony stares at him, confusion plain on his face. Steve realizes this for the victory that it is, to see Tony. Just Tony.

Steve takes a deep breath. “I said, me too,” he repeats, louder now. 

“Yes,” Tony says, slowly. “Just give me a second.”

Steve huffs, rolls his eyes.

“I was trying to remember what I’d said for you to respond that way!” Tony says indignantly.

“You said, ‘I’m sorry!’” Steve supplies, annoyed now that this apology didn’t go as planned.

“What?” Tony asks, still looking confused.

“I’m sorry!” Steve nearly shouts.

Tony, the son of a bitch, bursts out laughing. “No takebacksies,” he says, after composing himself.

Steve continues to stare, mouth parted in shock. “I don’t care,” he says. “I take it back.”

“Too late, J has it on video now,” Tony grins. 

Steve puts his head in his hands. “Is everything a joke to you?” he asks, voice muffled.

Tony pats Steve’s back. “You were such an asshole last night,” he says. “Like, seriously, the fucking worst. This is your karma.”

Steve starts to laugh, because Tony is an idiot, and he’s an idiot, and they were probably drawn together by the universe due to their shared idiocy. He tells Tony this.

“Speak for yourself,” Tony scoffs.

Steve shakes his head. Tony reaches over him to steal a sip of coffee.

“Do you realize that you’ve never apologized?” Tony asks, hands fully wrapped around Steve’s mug, unashamed at the theft.

Steve shakes his head. “Sure I haven’t,” he says, still a bit stung.

“Steve,” Tony draws out the “e,” and leans against Steve’s side.

“You’re a child,” Steve says, fighting back a smile valiantly.

But Tony knows him now, and knows he’s won. He laughs and presses a kiss against Steve’s cheek, and it’s in moments like this that Steve wonders how someone who has been through so much can still be so easy with his affection.

Meanwhile, Steve’s cheeks heat at the contact. He certainly doesn’t share Tony’s ease.

Tony looks up at Steve and smiles, and Steve can’t help but smile back, something warm unfurling inside him.


	4. instinct attempts to correct with a turn toward light

Steve wakes up and immediately, with no preamble or forethought, wishes he didn’t. His breath comes out in short bursts as images from his dream surface and fade just as quickly: snow, a train, a hand in his, a scream. 

Steve wants to punch something. Himself, mostly, just to have some semblance of control over his pain. His heart is rattling around his ribcage and so Steve decides that maybe today is the day he finally takes Sam’s advice; Today, he’s going to write about his feelings.

He digs around his desk for a new notebook, disregarding the taste of metal on his tongue as he sets aside half-finished sketches and pencils. 

*

_Okay so. Maybe I have a problem. It’s two days in a week now that I’ve blacked out and, you know. I didn’t mean to. I mean, I meant to at the time and I wanted it. God, I wanted it. I don’t know what to do about this downward spiral of control. _

Steve stares at his notebook, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, and squeezes his eyes shut. Then, he scratches it all out.

_Hi, Sam. I’m trying_, he tries again._ I’m trying not to filter how I feel. Last night _

Steve huffs, tears out the page. “Fuck,” he hisses. He crumples up the paper and throws it towards the growing pile by the bin.

“Steve?”

Steve starts up from his desk. “Hi,” he says with a bit of a quiver, and he hates himself for it, and he hates himself for hating himself for it. Everything’s so fucking messed up._ You, specifically_, his brain supplies, continuously unhelpful.

Tony’s eyes track Steve’s movement, then are drawn to the pile of papers. “If you’re busy I can just—” he says, hand still on Steve’s doorknob.

“No, I,” Steve shuts his notebook with an air of finality. Maybe later, he’ll try harder at writing out how he feels, and why. But for now: “I was heading out anyway. What’s up?”

“They’re making popcorn and rounding people up for movie night,” Tony says, leaning on the doorframe. Steve drinks the image in: Tony, illuminated by the light of the setting sun. His heather gray t-shirt, the muscles around his wrists, his black jeans that didn’t start out ripped.

Steve swallows, realizes that he hasn’t said anything. “Okay,” he says, dumbly.

“So you’re coming?” Tony pushes himself off the door frame gracefully.

Steve lets out a small noise of assent, his brain still catching up, how could it not stutter like that, after that sinuous movement?

Tony throws him a lazy salute and begins walking back to the hallway to the elevator. Steve bites his lip, then follows suit. 

*

They’re piled together in front of Tony’s massive television and watching_ Alien_—Clint’s choice. Bruce is half paying attention, his feet tucked under him and knee knocking against Natasha’s, bouncing with anxious energy as his fingers fly over his tablet. He only looks up when Tony, seated on the arm rest beside him, tenses up. 

On the screen, there’s a burst of blood and something pale jumping out of Kane’s chest; Thor yells, spilling popcorn over himself and Steve, and Tony lets out a big whoop of glee. Beside Steve, Natasha lets out a huff of breath: “Still gross,” she says to herself, as she slowly eases her vice-like grip on Steve’s arm. Clint, meanwhile, is completely unfazed and maintains his singular attention on the mayhem onscreen. Steve slumps back into the couch and smiles, and while his heart did race with surprise, now a sense of peace settles over him as he looks over the team.

He never expected to have become friends with such a wild, raucous bunch of people who share his penchant for violence and self-sacrifice, but he’d never fathomed the millennium, either, and yet here he is, a decade and a half into it.

JARVIS orders them pizzas, and they stay glued to their seats as _Aliens _ begins. Tony leaves for a moment to get the pizza, and settles own on the floor in front of Steve, leaning against Steve’s shins. Natasha takes a slice and snuggles closer to Steve, sandwiched between him and Bruce.

Clint shifts on the floor beside Tony, using Bruce’s knee as rest for his elbow and getting comfortable on one of the floor pillows. 

(_Floor pillows! _Steve had thought, months ago, when Tony had looked at Steve confusedly as Steve piled the large pillows onto the couch and said, “What are you doing? Those are for the floor.” 

Steve remembers furrowing his brow, hugging one of the oversized pillows to his chest in an act of defiance and saying, “You are the most opulent man I have ever met.”

“I’d be pretty pissed if you knew any other opulent assholes,” Tony said with a smirk, pulled the pillow out of Steve’s arms, and plopped it down on the floor.)

On Steve’s right, Thor had moved around and eventually found (and eaten) most of the spilled popcorn. Now, his toes were tucked snugly under Steve’s legs, seeking warmth.

Steve can’t pinpoint the exact moment when they’d gotten so comfortable with each other, maybe from all the first aid they’d performed on the quinjet, or all the meals they’d prepared and shared, jostling around the kitchen, trying to make themselves useful.

Tony passes Steve a slice and as Steve settles back into the couch, warm and content, he thinks:_ This world, these people. It’s enough. _

(That night, lying alone in bed, thinking about Bucky and where on earth he could be, Steve realizes, it might not be. Maybe.)

*

It’s almost been half a year.

Steve runs around Central Park an indeterminate amount of times, comes back to the tower and bumps into Tony, who’s sipping a cup of coffee, scrolling through his phone, and waiting for the elevator.

“Fight me,” Steve says, his voice a bit ragged from running.

“Excuse me?” Tony says, and Steve is standing inside the elevator and Tony is standing right outside it, and the doors begin to inch out to close—Steve slams a hand out to jam the door open, and Tony takes a step back. “Steve—”

“Spar with me. No one else is home, I asked JARVIS,” Steve says, his fingers flexing on the metal of the door.

“I’m,” Tony says, his own fingers flexing around the coffee mug.

“Tony,” Steve says, and tries (and fails) to keep the need from straining his voice.

Tony takes a long gulp of his coffee. “Okay,” he says, takes another gulp, “okay.”

*

Of course, it isn’t that fair a match. Still, Tony gives as hard as Steve, and he manages to flip Steve onto his back twice. Steve feels like a coiled wire, reminds himself to pull his punches, and then Tony maneuvers Steve onto his back. It’s a jiu-jitsu move that he remembers Natasha teaching them, and all the air in Steve’s lungs come out in one big_ woosh _.

Steve looks up at the ceiling of the gym, and something inside him shatters, the disappointment all of the sudden too heavy on his sternum.

Tony’s standing over him, offering Steve his hand and wiping his brow with another; his chest is rising and falling heavily. Steve keeps looking at the ceiling, feels tears begin to pool around his eyes, and he can’t figure out _why_.

Tony notices that Steve hasn’t gotten up, and looks down at Steve, alert. “Steve?”

Steve disregards Tony’s offered hand and sits up on his own. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to stymy the tears. “That was a good one, Tony,” he says, and he’s proud of himself because his voice doesn’t crack.

“Hey,” Tony says, crouching down beside Steve and resting his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Steve says, shrugging off Tony’s hand and standing up. “I’m fine. Just a bit winded,” he adds. “Anyway. I think I’m done for the day.” He keeps his face away from Tony’s line of sight, and takes big strides towards the door. 

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve says, and there’s a little tremor to his voice now, but Steve hopes he’s gotten far enough from Tony for him not to have heard it. 

*

Steve sits in his shower and cries quietly. He knows that he doesn’t have to be quiet—no one’s going to hear him from here. But still. 

He doesn’t know why he’s crying. He hates it. It being: crying, and not knowing why he’s crying. Well. He knows. But he doesn’t want to dwell on it.

After a while—probably, a long while—JARVIS pipes up: “Captain Rogers, Sir is inquiring about your status.”

Steve turns off the shower, clears his throat. “Tell him I’m fine, JARVIS. Please ask him if he wants pizza or Chinese for dinner.”

“Of course,” JARVIS intones graciously, and Steve towels himself off, pressing his fingers to his sore eyes.

*

Tony’s unpacking the take out in the kitchen when Steve gets there. Steve wordlessly joins him, removing covers off the tupperwares full of dim sum and setting them down on the counter.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Tony asks. Steve lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding; he’s thankful Tony isn’t asking about what had happened at the gym and is giving him a way out.

“Okay.” Steve pulls out his phone, checks the list of movies people had recommended. “How about _Singin’ in the Rain? _” Steve says.

Tony arches an eyebrow. “So I take it we’re at the 50s part of your pop culture education?” 

Steve shrugs in response: “Yeah, I guess.”

Steve spoons rice into two bowls, and piles on some beef and broccoli. Tony, meanwhile, transports the boxes of dim sum and chicken to the living room, and adjusts the coffee table so everything is within reach. They both settle in and eat quietly as the movie starts.

Beside him, Tony begins scrolling through his phone as he stuffs his mouth with rice. Gene Kelly and Donald O'Connor are dancing onscreen when Tony looks up and says, “pause,” and the movie stops. Before Steve can even make a noise of protest, Tony says: “How about we watch _12 Angry Men_, instead?” Steve hasn’t heard of it, and says so.

Tony closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as if offended. Steve, at this point, is used to the reaction.

“Just trust me, Steve, you’ll love it. I’ll even pay attention,” he smirks at Steve, “Which is more than what I was going to do for Gene Kelly.”

Steve frowns. “You know, no one’s forcing you to watch movies with me,” he says.

“Don’t worry, I’m forcing myself enough for the both of us,” he says, laughing a little.

In front of them, the new movie begins: black and white and serious.

Steve is entranced, and is vaguely aware of the arrival of the rest of the team. Clint stops beside Tony and watches for a few moments before saying, “Ugh, boring.” Natasha perches on the armrest beside Steve, and then eventually slides down onto the couch, forcing Steve and Tony to adjust. Steve is momentarily distracted by how close he and Tony are seated, pressed against each other hip to knee.

“I love this part,” Natasha says, as the juror onscreen finishes his tirade and all the other men turn away from him.

The movie ends, and Steve lets out a long breath. “Wow, Tony,” he says. 

Beside him, Natasha stretches out like a cat and yawns. “That was fun,” she says, untangling her legs from under her and getting up gracefully. “Good night, nerds.”

Tony winks at Natasha and she leans down to plant a kiss on Tony’s hair, and leaves.

“Really good, right?” Tony turns to Steve and grins. Steve nods, still reeling with how well done the movie was. “You know, that was Howard’s favorite,” Tony says.

It’s a surprise, to have Tony mention his father so casually. Steve takes it as an invitation for conversation and hopes he’s right.

“Howard? Really?” Steve says. “I thought he’d like something louder and flashier.”

“Nah, that’s me,” Tony says, smiling ruefully at the screen. “He’d always go on about like,” Tony pauses, makes a face. “‘The mutability of truth,’” he says mockingly, raising his fingers to do air-quotations at the phrase. Steve smiles fondly at Tony, but Tony’s eyes remain on the credits scrolling down the TV.

“Anyway that’s not the point. Obviously it’s not about truth.” Tony stops himself, and Steve cocks it head at how self-conscious Tony looks.

“Go on,” he urges.

“It’s about justice. About taking a stand.” Tony’s voice softens. “The difficulty of it all.” A beat, then Tony turns to Steve: “Anyway, that's why I thought you’d like it.”

“I did,” Steve nods. “Thanks for suggesting it.”

“I mean, we could’ve gone for that whole, Hollywood and songs thing,” Tony says, still looking a bit sheepish in the blue light.

Maybe it’s that, the light, that makes Steve see the question in Tony’s eyes: he wants to ask if Steve is okay, after the sparring earlier, but he won’t. Steve probably wouldn’t answer if he asked, anyway.

So instead he says, “I think I would’ve enjoyed it.”

“You still can, it’s not like the movie’s going anywhere.”

Steve snorts. “Okay. Make another bowl of popcorn, then.”

“Getting ordered about in my own home!” Tony says mock-indignantly as he snatches the bowl from the table and strides toward the kitchen.

“It’s mine too, I just don’t know how to use a microwave!” Steve teases, raising his voice so Tony can hear him.

“That would’ve worked three years ago!” Tony shouts from the kitchen, the air filled with the sound of corn popping.


	5. my heart, opened like a horn of plenty

Steve wakes up from his dream with a jolt: His chest arching off the bed, hands gripping the sheets. He feels hot all over, his body reacting to his dream: trapped in ice, but awake, watching the world go by, stuck. 

Steve takes deep breaths, then sits up. The analog clock on his bedside tells him it’s four in the morning.

He downs a glass of water and attempts to fall back asleep, spending an hour tossing and turning instead before he decides to make himself something warm to drink.

*

This is a familiar scene, now, Steve thinks, as he stands on the balcony with a cup of sweet coffee, surveying the city. 

Steve’s skin prickles at the crisp chill of autumn. He watches the traffic, hears a door opening, closing.

“I knew I’d find you out here.” Steve doesn’t turn to Tony, doesn’t ask why he knew he was up. He wants to be alone, but also doesn’t. (So maybe he came out here with specific company in mind. But to admit that, even to himself, feels like defeat.) 

He knows that standing outside on the balcony, even if at this point the team left him alone when he was out here, meant the possibility of seeing Tony, of having Tony come up to him, of having Tony start the conversation. 

So Steve had waited on the balcony, and now Tony is starting a conversation.

“Yeah,” Steve says, mostly just to say something. He glances at Tony, who’s wrapped in a gray cable-knit sweater._ Steve’s _ cable-knit sweater. “Hey, isn’t that mine?”

“If it’s in my closet then it’s mine,” Tony sniffs, pulling down on the sleeves to hide his hands as he wraps his arms around himself. Steve chuckles softly, shakes his head. Tony sidles up to him, and they stand beside each other, arms barely touching.

“I’m no good at this, you know,” Tony says, after a while. Steve looks at Tony, watches as Tony’s eyes track the movement of a plane making its way over the city. 

“Me neither,” Steve says. Tony’s lips quirk up into a small smile.

“Well. I’m here, if you want to,” Tony’s scrunches up his face. “I don’t know, talk about whatever.” 

“I know,” Steve says, because he does know. “It’s just. It’s difficult.”

“Preaching to the choir here,” Tony laughs a little, then nudges Steve a bit with his arm. “You don’t have to. Whatever. We can be quiet.”

“Really? Quiet?” Steve laughs now, and nudges Tony back. Tony shrugs his shoulders, but doesn’t say anything, as if demonstrating his point.

Steve looks at the city, wondering what he should say. It’s not a matter of not knowing where to begin, but struggling with the very idea of beginning at all; he doesn’t do this. Vulnerability has never been an option for him, for Steve Rogers, and later, for Captain America. He feels like the physical embodiment of the phrase “soldiering on.”

Tony has given him so much. It’s not like Steve owes him this, the trust—Tony would hate that sentiment. But this moment, the quiet, it’s an avenue Steve had traversed years ago, with Bucky. To let someone see him,_ just_ him, finally.

Steve sucks in a breath.

“I don’t know,” Steve starts. Takes another deep breath, laughs at how nervous he feels as he continues to search within himself, to find the latch he’d hidden away so expertly.

“I wish I could be more like you, sometimes,” he says. Steve stops, startled by his own sudden honesty. 

Tony looks up at him, surprise flashing on his face for a brief moment before he schools it back into something more pensive. He nods at Steve, waiting for more.

“You can just go and do things. Or, well, that’s how it seems, to me. To everyone else, too. You can just do things and not care about what people think, what people expect. I can’t _do_ that. I don’t think I’m allowed to, not anymore. You know?” Tony makes a small sound of understanding.

“I’m never just me. I’m never just Steve Rogers anymore. It’s always Captain America: Steve Rogers, or just Captain America. It gets—” Steve grapples with the admission, then says, “It gets tiring.”

“Before everything, all that mattered to me was what I thought of myself. At least that way, it was all up to me, whether or not I’d be happy or disappointed. But now, now there’s just the fact of everything. People have this idealized version of me in their heads and I can’t—_won’t_—let them think otherwise.

“I guess you’d know what that’s like, too. Anyway, all these people, everyone, they always say things, and they say it so often it’s hard not to believe them, to take on the burden of existence and to internalize the hope you’ve given them and then hold yourself to it.” Steve doesn’t look at Tony as he talks, can’t bear to. 

“I thought of myself as someone who could do anything, could save anyone, because I was strong, and brave, and smart. And then, one day, none of that mattered, none of that was true. I wasn’t strong enough, or brave enough, or smart enough to save the one person in the world who was with me through it all, before I was the man people talked up enough to become a myth.”

Steve stops, runs a shaky hand through his hair. “It sounds awfully pigheaded of me to say these things out loud,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Tony says, and Steve sees him begin to reach out, but stop. Steve feels an ache awaken in him, the want to be touched. But he can’t bear to ask, so he nods and continues.

“Well. I was still all of those things to all of those people, back then. And then I thought I was going to die and there were only so many seconds I had left to make peace with that. But you know what was on my mind?”

Tony shakes his head. 

“I was thinking about how, after everything, it was worth it. I knew I had to do it. And I’d do it again.”

Steve pauses again, notices his hands are shaking. “But I wish I didn’t have to find out after all these years that it wasn’t worth anything, after all. The wars never stopped, HYDRA never stopped, and what nearly broke me turns out to have been a farce.” Steve sighs, rubs the back of his neck. “He’s alive, somewhere, without me. He didn’t even remember me. And I can’t even find him to help him.”

“What happened to Bucky, what Bucky has done, doesn’t mean I didn’t fail, it just means the story isn’t over, and everyone still thinks I’m so good, when I’m not. I’m the jerk who left his friend for dead, and now that friend is all alone in the world, again. And I couldn’t do anything about it, and I still can’t now,” he finishes, and takes a small sip of his now cold coffee.

Tony hums, letting Steve know he’s thinking of his response. Steve appreciates the gesture immensely.

“Steve,” Tony says, “I don’t know if anyone has told you this already, but—it’s not your fault. You have to know that.” Tony touches Steve’s arm, as if asking Steve to look at him.

“Oh, you know, sure,” Steve says sardonically. He doesn’t shrug off Tony’s hand, but Tony moves away anyway. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“But it is,” Steve adds, quietly, wrenched open and completely unravelled. He couldn’t stop himself from talking even if he wanted to, and he doesn’t want to, admissions continuing to tumble from his lips. “I didn’t try hard enough to find him, after he fell, and even now—I just, I didn’t do enough, Tony. I could’ve done more,” Steve closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose, trying to calm himself.

“We can always—no, look, we do as much as we can as best as we can and sometimes that’s it. There’s never going to be enough.” Tony lets out a huff of breath. “And now you have to believe me, because it’s _me_ saying that, that it’s never going to be enough, but the most we can do is what we’re doing and accept that... that.” Tony falters, laughs. “No, nevermind. I have no idea what I’m saying. I’m like, the least qualified person here to talk you out of self-hatred.” 

This, at least, brings a small smile to Steve’s lips. “However,” Tony starts again, “I am told, that just talking helps. Is this helping?”

Steve’s smile drops, and he sighs. “Not really. I don’t know.” Steve feels raw, split open. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and Steve hasn’t decided if he’s going to regret this.

Tony nods, as if Steve had said those thoughts out loud. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he says, touching a finger to his nose. “Secret’s safe with me.” 

Steve smiles again. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Any time. Really. Like you said, I… I know what it’s about.” Tony laughs a little again. “I mean, at least in some approximations.” 

“But how about we cut through all the mistakes I made before—” Tony stops, considers his next words, then says: “Before where I am now. See? I QA’ed it for you. No more self-destructive behavior, how about that?”

“QA?”

“Quality assurance. Or assessment? Both.”

Steve nods, then startles a little when Tony reaches down and rubs his fingers over Steve’s knuckles. “Just, you know. Talk. To me, or to Sam, or whoever. JARVIS, even. He’s great, kinda used to all the—” Tony makes a vague, fluttery motion with his other hand. 

The gesture is what tips the slow swell of affection that had begun to bloom in Steve’s chest into a full crescendo, and this is probably why, at this exact moment, the lights of New York shining around them, Tony’s hand on top of his, that Steve leans down and kisses Tony.

Tony kisses back for half a second, then backs away. 

“Oh,” Tony says, “Hah, hey there, uh.” Tony moves his hand from on top of Steve’s to place it squarely on Steve’s chest. Steve’s pretty sure he can feel how hard Steve’s heart is beating against his ribcage. 

Tony looks at Steve, then looks away, then looks back at Steve. 

“I thought I just said, you know. No self-destructive behavior,” Tony lets out another strangled laugh, and takes another step away from Steve. Steve immediately misses the warmth of Tony’s hand over his chest.

Steve collects himself quickly, schooling confusion off his face. “Right,” he says, mimicking Tony’s smile. “Right,” he says again, mostly to himself. 

“Well! That was good. Just, you know,” Tony makes another vague motion with his hand.

“Yes. Thank you,” Steve says, and they’ve backed away enough from each other that by now Steve’s by the door. “See you,” Steve says, and flees.

*

Steve paces around his room, hands on his hips. He can’t think straight, can’t think at all, really, his internal monologue sounding a lot like when he’d turned the knob on the radio too quickly and the words and the static all blurred together.

“Okay,” Steve says to himself, out loud to his empty room. “Okay.”

He was hoping that saying words would somehow jumpstart his thought process to find a way to talk himself down, but it doesn’t help. Now he feels even more frazzled.

Steve changes into sweats and heads out, making sure to check with JARVIS that the path to the exit is free of any opportunities for conversation.

*

Twelve miles later and Steve still can’t think. It’s as if his mind has just erected a wall around the memory and refuses to access it, either out of self-defense or shame. 

So, it just means, well. It means it’s fine. _Or it will be, eventually_, Steve tells himself. Steve bared his soul to Tony and Tony hadn’t run away at that, so there is still some form of their friendship that Steve could return to.

He resolves that he’ll try and smooth things over with Tony tomorrow (once the buzz of confusion and stress in his brain has stopped), and it’ll all just go back to normal and Steve—Steve will just have no romantic feelings ever again.

That’s fine. Too much else to worry about, anyway.


	6. looking for skin does not unstitch the mouth

Steve wakes up from a dream and shivers at the cold; his shirt clings to his back, wet with his sweat. The dream is already fading quickly from his mind, but it’s become familiar now. Him and Tony on the balcony, New York sparkling around them, his lips against Tony’s. In his dreams, it always goes better. They kiss, and then they smile, and then sometimes (and Steve likes these dreams best) they tell each other how it’s been a long time coming, and that they love each other.

He stays in bed for a bit longer, thinking about Tony’s hands. He jolts out of his bed when he feels the first flush of arousal, not sure if it was decent to think that way, after Tony had so soundly rejected him.

Steve’s pretty sure this says something about him, about how he idealizes things, wants control over the story. He doesn’t dwell on these dreams enough to parse them. If nothing else, Steve wants the dreams to bolster his confidence in finally talking to Tony about what had happened between them almost a month ago, to see if there was still a chance, maybe.

No one knows how in his head Steve can get about things; most people just assume Steve’s the type to just do, and then deal with happens after the doing. Which is true most of the time. When the stakes are all Steve, recklessness is the status quo.

It’s things like this, when it’s people that matter to him (and Steve had stared wide-eyed at his reflection as he realized this while brushing his teeth: _Tony matters to me._ Steve didn’t want to quantify to what degree that was true, but there it was), things Steve wants to cradle with his whole body rather than use his fists to beat into submission, that Steve turns situations over and over in his mind, looking for the path to the best outcome.

*

There are some days when the team just gravitates toward each other, not really seeking to do anything other than bask in each other’s company. 

It’s one of those nights, all of their attention occupied: Tony is standing by one of the large windows and is using it as a screen, manipulating designs for a gauntlet. Natasha and Bruce are on the couch, Natasha leaning against Bruce’s side as she pages through an Agatha Christie novel. Bruce is playing idly with Natasha’s hair while reading a comic book. (“What comic is that?” Steve asked, when he’d arrived earlier, looking for Thor. “It’s a graphic novel,” Tony and Bruce chided Steve simultaneously, without looking up from their individual diversions.) 

Now Steve and Thor are looking through after action reports, talking in muted tones and wondering aloud if there’s a possibility they’d missed something.

Clint, previously preoccupied with popping bubbles on his phone, turns his head up to the ceiling and says, “Hey JARVIS, play some Beatles for me, will you?”

Around them, the air is filled with a jangly guitar riff. Clint immediately begins singing, and Steve looks up when he hears Tony begin to hum along. Steve and Thor share confused looks as Bruce and Natasha join in, singing what Steve assumes to be the chorus.

The song ends, and then a new frenetic beat begins and picks up. Clint plucks the book out of Natasha’s hands, pulls her up to her feet, and begins to dance with her, laughing as they go. Tony is absentmindedly dancing along, and Bruce puts down his book to watch, smiling at them.

“What is happening?” Thor asks, laughing now as well.

Bruce gets up from his couch and offers his hand to Thor. “Come on Thor, let me show you how to twist.”

“To what?” Thor asks, still laughing, but getting up anyway. Tony seems to have noticed this movement, and is now suddenly standing right beside Steve.

“Can’t have you feeling left out,” Tony says, smiling down at Steve and offering his hand.

“Oh, I’d really rather, um, I’d rather not,” Steve says, patting Tony’s forearm awkwardly.

“Come on, Steve,” Tony says, curling his fingers towards his palm, inviting. “Since when have I taken no for an answer?”

Steve feels the sharp stab of want in his belly, and he wishes he’d had the same resolve all those nights ago when Tony had pulled away. He wishes he’d told Tony he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and kept kissing him, and kissing him, and kissing him.

But he didn’t, and now he’s in the tower living room, being asked to dance. The voice over the speakers continues its invocations: _Well shake it up, baby, now! Twist and shout! _

Steve can’t help but think of Peggy, of the dance they’d agreed on, and the way she’d smiled at him when he’d visit her. Even then, she’d told him that he deserved to find the right dance partner. 

He thinks that maybe he’s finally ready to try (even if it’s not going anywhere, but Steve doesn’t want to dwell on that, not yet, at least).

So Steve takes Tony’s hand and pulls himself up. Around them, the rest of the team is shimmying their hips. Steve notices that Thor seems to have taken to the movement quickly, and he feels a flash of jealousy; but Thor was a god, after all, of course he’d quickly learn how to dance.

Tony settles his hands on Steve’s hips, then hooks his foot around Steve’s pushing it forward. “Okay, so you kinda just—” Tony pushes against Steve’s left hip, and pulls at the right. Steve follows the pressure, and feels a bit hot around his collar, his body alight with the casual intimacy.

“Okay, and then kinda, rock on the balls of your feet,” Tony says, and does it himself, demonstrating. Steve nods a bit jerkily, reminding himself not to stare. Steve tiptoes, and copies Tony’s movement. “There you go,” Tony says softly, a touch of pride in his voice. 

Tony moves his hands away from Steve’s hips, and positions Steve’s arms away from his body, bending them at the elbow. Tony smiles, nods, and begins to dance.

It’s a different voice singing over the speakers now, but he’s telling them to “do the twist.”

“This was really a thing?” Steve says, eyebrows knit as he tries to do the dance properly.

“Oh Steve, it was literally _the _ thing in the 60s,” Tony says, and then touches two fingers to Steve’s forehead, smoothing out his eyebrows. “And it’s supposed to be fun, too.” He smiles. Steve lets out a huff of laughter. 

He and Tony are only a few inches apart, and Steve feels stiff and uncoordinated compared to Tony’s easy, graceful movements. 

Steve wants to have fun; he’s just never really been good at it.

He only realizes he’s watching Tony intently when laughter and clapping snap him out of his thoughts.

“Not bad!” Clint says, back on the sofa, his legs sprawled on top of Natasha’s. “I knew you had it in you.”

“I haven’t danced since prom,” Bruce says, his smile wide and relaxed. “That was really fun.”

“What a strange dance,” Thor added. “You’re not meant to touch each other? Why?” 

Bruce shrugs, then nudges Natasha’s legs up to retrieve his book. JARVIS has lowered the music to a soft hum, and Natasha and Clint’s are bowed close together as they look at something on Clint’s phone.

Steve turns to Tony to say thank you, but Tony’s already back by the window, adjusting measurements.

Steve slumps back onto the couch beside Thor, and Natasha reaches over to give Steve’s hand a squeeze. “That was fun, right?” she says, smiling at Steve. Steve gives her a small smile and nods, then goes back to reading reports, 60s music continuing to play.

*

It happens more than once, which is what tips Steve off. Tony’s acting as if nothing has changed, and that’s a good thing, it’s what Steve _ wanted_, except now Steve has become distinctly aware of every time Tony touches him. It feels electric, every time, and it makes Steve not want things to go back to normal for a little while, until he realizes how crazy that sounds.

The touches could be seen inconsequential things: a hand on Steve’s lower back as they all file out of the elevator, or touching Steve’s forearm while they’re having dinner to ask him to please pass the salt, or his knee bumping against Steve’s when they sit on the couch together.

It’s been years since Steve has felt this aware of his body, the size of it and the way he takes up space, and the way Tony, somehow, always finds space beside him. 

Steve feels crazy for even thinking that, but it’s true: Tony does manage to wriggle his way to Steve’s side, and Steve isn’t sure if it’s on purpose or if Steve is only cataloguing those moments and disregarding the rest. Surely, Tony isn’t seeking him out; he’s the one who said no, after all.

Besides, Steve reasons, Tony has a habit of grabbing Bruce’s hand when they’re swept up in conversation, and Tony will laugh and reach over and bop Bruce’s nose when Bruce gets too serious or morose. Tony absently massages Natasha when they’re seated beside each other, either during a debrief or while lazing around and watching a movie; he’ll just reach over and pinch at the muscle between Natasha’s neck and shoulder, and Natasha always lets out a hiss of satisfaction. Tony shoves Clint or squeezes his arms when they get competitive over any sort of game. And Tony always make a point to ruffle Thor’s hair, whenever he enters a room with Thor in it.

But it’s not like the touches really mean anything, Steve rationalizes. He was dimly aware of the mania that descends on his consciousness over how touch-starved (Natasha’s words) Tony is, and only realizes the mania for what it is when he catches himself watching Tony’s hands bury into Thor’s wild hair. Steve resolves to spend some time alone, if only to recalibrate.

*

The room that gets the least foot traffic is the library. Steve knows this from the fine layer of dust that coats one of the desks, but also because he’d asked JARVIS, point blank, which room in the tower he could go to where he could expect no visitors. JARVIS had said that other than his own apartment, Bruce would frequent the library most evenings, but it remained empty most of the day. 

Steve sits in silence with his sketchbook open in front of him. His mind humming with the thoughtless motion of twirling a pencil between his fingers. In front of him was a grand view of Central Park. 

Steve remembers when he’d been so easily awed, when the reality of life had seemed far away, and then there were aliens and _more _aliens, and the moments that Steve wilfully let himself simmer were few and far between. He never wanted to stop because fights, wars, those were old hat by now. He knew how to roll with the punches, how to give as much as he got. 

To stop meant to give credence to the emptiness that he’s felt for a while, now. Steve thinks back on what he’d told Tony, and he keeps going back to these thoughts, these memories of Bucky. They cloud out most everything else. Steve thinks of that afternoon in the helicarrier, of how Bucky’s voice had changed, how his fist felt against Steve’s face, and the calm that had settled over him when he accepted that maybe, he was finally going to die. 

But that would have been too easy. Instead, he’s here, sitting in an ornate chair in a well-stocked library, miles above the rest of the city, and he’s thinking about the one friend he had in the world who he’d let down so severely.

The pencil in Steve’s hand breaks clean in half.

Steve picks up the piece with a sharpened edge. He’s fine. He’s fine. He draws sharp lines on the pad, and silences all thought as he draws the skyline, a few years ago so glaringly unfamiliar, but now, he’s able to sketch it out without having to look up. Steve sharpens another pencil, and his phone pings with a message from Sam: _Howd u find the 60s? _

The phone pings again, this time with a link to a playlist Sam has thrown together. It starts with “Trouble Man,” and Steve smiles to himself, remembering the first time they’d met. He places his phone on the desk, and plays the rest of the music.

The music, playing from his phone speakers, is tinny and small compared to the speakers installed in the rest of the tower. It’s only by a little, but it’s enough for Steve to notice the difference in quality. Steve thinks of maybe telling Tony this, but realizes that the tower will constantly be blasted by music as Tony figures out the solution (so, maybe not tell Tony). 

After a few listens to the playlist, Steve decides he likes 70s music. Steve closes his eyes and listens to Simon & Garfukel, knowing full well that if anyone from the team walked in on him right now, they’d say he was the perfect caricature of an old man.

Steve eventually picks up his sketchbook again, begins to outline out Bucky’s shape, and then the rest of the Commandos. Steve feels very far away when he remembers them, and now, feels as if he’s watching a projection of himself, not really feeling anything as he contemplates his comrades, his friends.

It’s this feeling of distance that allows him to revisit an earlier thought, from when he’d first seen Bucky in this future world: is it even really Bucky, anymore? Or is it a man in a body Steve had known? But just as quickly, Steve disregards these notions, knows, deep in his bones, that of course it’s still Bucky. It has to be, and it is.

Steve remembers his apartment, that brick he’d hide his spare key under, the way Bucky knew everything, absolutely everything. When Steve finds him, he thinks, it will play out like that: lifting a brick, finding a hidden key, unlocking everything. Bucky will have a whole life to sift through, behind those doors they’d hidden in him, and Steve will be there for all of it. They’ll start with all the files Natasha had leaked, and it’ll work out, eventually—it always did, as long as it was the two of them. 

Steve finishes these ruminations and begins inking in the sketch. He erases the pencil away carefully, and realizes that the lightness in his chest is hope. It’s a strange feeling, but not an unwelcome one.

*

It’s with this same feeling that Steve bundles up all his things and asks JARVIS to bring him down to Tony’s workshop. Steve punches in his code and hears the music pause as he steps in.

“What’s that?” Tony asks, gesturing to Steve’s sketchbook. 

“Nothing,” Steve says, and fights the urge to hide the pad behind his back. He realizes, like a punch to the gut, that he’d give Tony anything he wanted, he just had to ask. It feels _weird_, to know someone has that power over you.

“Anyway,” Steve says, and begins relaxing and tightening his grip around his sketchbook as he grapples with this newfound knowledge, about how deeply he feels after all, and still—he came down to check in with Tony, to make sure they’re really okay, that Tony isn’t pretending.

Tony is looking at Steve, head cocked to the side and waiting for Steve to continue his sentence.

“Anyway,” Steve says again. “I just wanted to check up on, on…” Steve falters, realizes how strange it will sound if he says “you,” so instead, he opts to say: “Us.” _Oh, damn it, Steve _.

“I meant,” Steve says quickly, all his words bumping into each other in the air. “We’re okay, right?” Steve asks, then adds: “I mean, I shouldn’t have, you know. That. But I also just want us to be okay.”

Tony’s covering his mouth, but Steve can see how the skin around Tony’s eyes are crinkling up; he’s smiling. Steve feels inexplicably flooded with relief, and smiles as well. 

“I think we’re pretty golden, Steve,” Tony says. 

Steve nods. “Good.” He then turns to leave, but stops. “Hey, Tony?”

Tony has his back to Steve, the soldering iron buzzing in his hand. “Huh?” Tony asks, and turns off the tool.

“I’m glad we’re okay. And if you want to talk about whatever, I’m here too, okay?”

Tony smiles openly at Steve now, and nods. “I know.”


	7. an archive of miscommunication and the faded receipts of secondary disgraces

Steve wakes up to the blaring of the alarm. He dresses quickly, grabs his tablet off his desk and hefts his shield before walking briskly to the elevator. The elevator stops on Bruce’s floor, and they nod at each other in greeting. They’re silent for a few seconds before the elevator doors open to the hangar floor.

Clint is dozing against one of the walls of the quinjet when they arrive. Natasha and Tony soon follow, and make their way wordlessly towards the cockpit, Tony maneuvering around equipment while drinking from a metal tumbler. 

Bruce, Natasha, and Tony are speaking in hushed tones as Steve checks his gear one more time. Thor arrives last, adjusting his chestplate with one hand and yawning as he sets his hammer down on the floor.

“All good?” Natasha asks, turning to check on all of them. Tony cracks his neck, then his knuckles. “Let’s rock and roll,” he says, and fires up the engine. “J, spell it out for us.”

Bruce nudges Clint awake as JARVIS begins updating the team with the information on a new HYDRA cell; this one is tucked deep in Spain, somewhere called Salamanca. 

Steve looks out the window as the quinjet exits from the launch bay. Even after all this time, Steve still finds himself staring as the quinjet’s wings unfold, marvelling at Tony’s design. 

As the quinjet exits, Steve turns back to the plans on the table in front of them. As he does, his eyes meet Tony’s, and Tony looks away quickly. Steve bites his lip, files the moment away for scrutiny after the mission. 

The sky is still dark as they make their way over the city, zooming past the skyscrapers and soon over water. “It’s going to take a few hours,” Tony says to everyone, after JARVIS has finished briefing the team on the estimated number of combatants and other defense mechanisms in the cell. 

Thor settles into one of the cots and promptly falls asleep. 

Clint, who hadn’t moved at all from where he was napping, simply settles back in, fluffs up a jacket he was using as a pillow, and drops off.

Steve sits on one of the benches and reads through JARVIS’ more detailed report on his tablet.

“Go get some rest,” he hears Tony say to Natasha. There’s a beat, and Steve can tell Natasha’s rolling her eyes. 

“I know you haven’t slept,” Natasha says, and Steve looks up from his tablet to observe how Natasha will force Tony to get some sleep this time.

“I’m fine,” Tony says, taking another sip from his coffee. As he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, Natasha flicks Tony’s forehead. “Go lie down,” she says.

“If I do sleep then I’ll just feel even more tired when I wake up three hours from now,” Tony says, seriously making a case for sleeplessness. 

Now it’s Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. Steve sets down his tablet and walks up to the two of them, surprising Tony has he claps him on the back. “Come on,” Steve says.

Tony pouts, so Steve knows he’s won.

Steve glances at Natasha as he leads Tony to the back of the jet, where Thor is snoring softly. 

Natasha raises her eyebrow at him and smirks as she pointedly looks at his hand on Tony’s lower back. Steve frowns, and drops his hand to his side. Natasha rolls her eyes, then turns back to the cockpit. 

Bruce is leaning against Clint, tablet still glowing bright in his hands, as his head lolls to the side and lands against Clint’s shoulder.

It’s been a while since they’d had a late night mission like this.

Tony huffs as he sits on one of the cots. “I really don’t—” Steve shushes him and gently pushes him down onto the cot, hand firm against Tony’s chest. 

This is the first time Steve’s touched him there, Steve realizes, and pulls away quickly as if burned. Tony looks at him sharply, a question in his eyes. 

“You really should,” Steve says, and pushes Tony’s legs to the side so he can sit on the cot. He’s aiming for casual friendliness, and he hopes he doesn’t come off as anything else.

He flicks on his tablet and continues to read through the packet as he waits for Tony to fall asleep. Tony shifts around, trying to get comfortable, all while grumbling under his breath. 

Steve smiles, eyes still on his tablet, as he pats Tony’s thigh, trying to appease him.

*

They’re about an hour away from the base when JARVIS says, “Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff,” and Tony wakes up almost immediately at the sound of JARVIS’ voice. “There’s chatter about what the agents are referring to as ‘an asset.’” 

Steve sits up straighter. Natasha clicks on the autopilot and gets up from her seat to shake Clint and Bruce awake. Tony reaches over and tugs at Thor’s boot, waking him up as well.

“Please repeat that, JARVIS,” Steve says, once everyone is fully alert.

“Chatter on their comms about something the agents are referring to as an ‘asset’,” JARVIS repeats.

“That’s what they called Barnes,” Bruce supplies. Everyone knows this already, but he seems to say it more to himself. 

Steve stands and moves to a central panel in the quinjet. He pulls up a schematic of the base and says, “Okay. Here’s the plan.”

*

The plan worked. Of course it did.

Too bad for everything else.

The team is silent on the quinjet. Clint and Natasha are piloting up front, Thor and Bruce standing by them and watching the clouds fly by. No one was hurt—they had stormed in so quickly and the agents were all mostly still just waking up, or winding down from the night shift. 

Steve remembers the pride swelling in his chest as the team took down the base quickly and efficiently, like a well-oiled machine; he’d write the op up for a case study, but there’s no SHIELD anymore that could make use of it. 

Of course, these thoughts are all isolated to the moments before Steve descended upon the captain of the base.

Tony is sitting across Steve, pointedly avoiding eye contact. There’s a tight set to his jaw, and Steve briefly considers saying something if only to ease that look off Tony’s face. He decides against it, because he’s the reason for the look in the first place.

Post-ops are usually the best times for the team, everyone relieved that no one had been injured too badly, everyone taking the chance to talk about the winning strategy, or parse through the data they’d collected. Instead, the air is thick with tension. 

No one brings up how Tony had to pull Steve away when he was dangerously close to smashing the agent’s face in, shouting in Spanish about the asset. _ ¿Dónde está el soldado de invierno? Where is the winter soldier? _

The agent, back when he could talk, kept repeating:_ No sé, no sé, no sé. I don’t know _.

*

Steve is sitting on his bed, watching his hand shake. He feels as if he’s watching himself through glass, the thoughts rattling around his head coming off as white noise.

There’s a knock at his door. “Steve? It’s me.”

Suddenly, everything snaps back into place. Steve clenches his hands into fists, then takes a deep breath to recenter. “Come in,” he says. 

Steve glances at Tony, noting that he’s fresh from a shower, wearing a black tank top and sweatpants. Want stirs, unbidden, inside him. Steve covers his face with his hands and sighs. 

With anyone else, he knows, he would never do something so telling. But it’s Tony, so he does. He can hear Tony padding softly on the floor, but doesn’t look up. 

Steve feels Tony’s hands on his wrists, gently pulling his hands away from his face. “Hi,” Tony says, softly. Tony’s kneeling in front of Steve, his body taking the space between Steve’s legs. It’s an intimate position, Steve notes, as he looks at Tony, his damp hair, the sharp angles of his beard. Steve looks away, ashamed by his want.

Tony cups Steve’s jaw gently, turning his head back to face him. “Steve,” he says, and Steve feels on fire with the sheer force of his need—to have Tony closer to him, to touch him, any part of him. He’s sure he’s never felt this way about anyone, ever, his whole body suddenly angling for closeness. 

Steve can see the individual lashes around Tony’s eyes, only then does it register that he’s been moving closer and closer (and that means, Tony has been too, right? Steve thinks, dazedly). Their noses touch, and they both let out a surprised huff of laughter.

Everything in Steve’s field of vision is bright: Tony’s hair, Tony’s eyes, Tony’s mouth. Tony’s looking at Steve with such intensity that Steve feels his cheeks flush, and with a sudden swell of courage Steve only usually feels during a fight, he leans in closer and seals the space between their lips. He twists his wrist away from Tony’s grip, sliding his hand up the expanse of Tony’s bare arm, squeezing at the muscles there.

Tony’s mouth parts in surprise from the contact, and Steve tilts his head for better access, their lips slotting back together. Steve feels hot, his pulse jittery and zinging around his body.

At the first touch of tongue, Steve shivers, all his nerve-endings alight with tension, waiting to see where Tony will touch him next. Tony’s hand moves from Steve’s jaw to rest on his nape, scratching his scalp with his fingernails, and Steve is shocked by the sound he makes: a soft, small moan, right into Tony’s mouth.

Tony pulls away at the sound, hands retracting immediately from Steve’s neck, Steve’s chest. 

“Steve, I’m—” 

“Tony, just—” 

Tony stares at Steve, looking small as he rests on the balls of his feet, hands on his lap and still kneeling in front of Steve. 

Steve pulls him up to sit beside him, and Tony follows bonelessly. Steve swallows, feeling faint.

“Tony, you—you have to know how I feel about you,” Steve says, and he didn’t plan on ever saying these words out loud, but he feels like he has to, now. “I—I really like you. And not just. Not just like I’d die for you,” Steve’s mouth continues to push out words, nonsense words, spurred by the fear of what Tony will say. 

Steve pauses, swallows hard, alarm bells ringing around his disjointed thoughts. “I mean, I’d die for anyone,” he says, words rushing out of him.

“Yes, this has been established.” Tony’s face is scrunched into a confused smile. Steve mirrors this, knows that neither of them are really sure why the conversation has taken this turn. 

“I mean,” Steve continues, as if Tony hasn’t said anything, because it’s easier to pretend he’s talking to a cardboard cut-out of Tony (the first of which he’d seen on a window display of a toy store, alongside the rest of the team. Steve had taken a photo and sent it to the group with the message “If the rest of the 21st century is like this then maybe we shouldn’t have stopped Loki.”). Steve shakes his head to clear it of these meanderings, focuses instead on imagining that none of this is real, because it makes it easier. “What I’m saying is, I think I’m in love with you,” Steve finishes lamely.

Steve’s eyes remain trained on the floorboards, dark brown with swirls of black grain. Tony touches Steve’s wrist. Steve keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, trying to measure his breathing.

“Steve,” Tony’s voice is tentative, and it’s been a long time since Steve has felt this scared, butterflies fluttering all over the caverns of his body.

Again, Tony’s hand is on his jaw, turning Steve’s head to face his. “Steve,” Tony says, and ducks his head a little so he’s in Steve’s line of sight. Steve’s eyes meet his, and Tony offers up the smallest of smiles. “Hi,” Tony says, his voice soft. 

Steve breathes. 

“Well.” There’s a bit of conviction now to Tony’s voice, now, so Steve knows he’s lost.

“Just, just tell me if you don’t want this. Tell me if it’s just me, if you don’t feel the same, just tell me and I’ll drop it,” Steve says, because it might as well just come from him. Tony moves his hand back onto his lap, and Steve finally manages the courage to look up at Tony. He’s momentarily shocked by the sadness in Tony’s eyes.

“Look, Steve,” and now it’s Tony who averts his eyes, and Steve raises his hand to touch Tony’s face, to mirror Tony’s actions, but stops, hand falling back to his side uselessly. Tony’s eyes flick up, noticing the aborted movement. 

“You’re going through something right now. Something really difficult. I know that, and I’m here for you, okay?” Tony looks back at Steve, waiting for an acknowledgement. Steve swallows, and nods.

“But I don’t think it would be good for us to, you know.” Tony makes a movement with his hands, as if not knowing what words to use. “Not like this.”

Steve always thought himself above begging. And maybe he was. But the more likely answer is that he just never felt the need to, at least until now.

“Tony please.” Steve’s voice is barely above a whisper. He touches Tony’s thigh, and Tony jerks at the movement. Steve winces. A moment passes, then: “I need you,” Steve admits, finally.

“You have me,” Tony gives Steve’s hand a quick squeeze, aiming for reassuring. “You have me, and Natasha, and Bruce, and yeah, I guess Thor and Clint if you’re so inclined,” Tony tries for a laugh, but fails miserably. “You have us,” Tony finishes, and looks at Steve again.

Steve is silent as the words settle. He wants to vomit, lash out, or cry, or all of the above at the same time, wants to ask Tony why, and also wants to go back to the moment before he ever said anything.

“Okay.” Steve says, his tone much stronger than he feels.

“Do you want me to go?”

_No._ “Yes.”

So Tony does.

*

Steve sits in silence for what he thinks is hours. He doesn’t know what time it is. They’d arrived while the sun was up, but everyone had shuffled off silently to catch up on sleep—thankful for the benefit of not having anyone to report to after a mission.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Steve?” It’s Natasha. She doesn’t wait for Steve to invite her in before entering. 

“Was an alert sent out that I wasn’t aware of?” Steve’s voice is sharp with sarcasm, but he didn’t mean it; again, he feels far away from himself. All he can see are his hands.

Natasha doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she sits beside Steve, puts a hand on his shoulder. She means for it to be comforting, Steve knows this, but it irritates him all the same.

“Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question. They both know this. Steve remains silent, continuing to stare at his hands. Earlier they were pink from how hard Steve had scrubbed, to get all of the blood off. Now they’re just that: his hands. 

Funny, that. Tony hadn’t cared about the blood on the quinjet, when he’d turned Steve’s hands over to check for wounds because they were so caked in blood. But when they were clean? It plays in his mind’s eye over and over again, the way Tony had jerked away from him, from his hands.

Natasha rubs Steve’s back and it does begin to soothe him, but he’s loathe to admit it.

“Want to talk about what happened back there?” And only now does it register that Steve had nearly killed someone, that Steve had lost control so profoundly.

The shame doubles down on him, and Steve blinks, finally back in his skin, and his skin is crawling.

“Nothing much to talk about,” Steve lies. He doesn’t know where to begin, so it’s easier not to.

Natasha sighs. It annoys Steve.

“We’ll find him, Steve. We’re trying.” 

Everyone’s trying, all the time, and it hasn’t been enough, so what will make the difference? Nothing. Steve doesn’t say these words out loud, but an awful, bitter part of him wants to.

“Okay,” Steve says, because sometimes the path to control means that of least resistance.

They’re silent for a while, Natasha’s hands making large circles on Steve’s back.

“Tony’s trying his best.” 

Steve’s head snaps quickly to face Natasha. “What?”

Natasha’s face is impassive. “He’s trying, for you. He’s doing his best to help.”

Steve bites back the bile rising up his throat, threatening to color his words. He doesn’t say anything, afraid to give it all away.

Natasha sighs again, moves her hand away from Steve’s back to hold his hand. “I know it might not come off that way, but he does feel the same.”

Steve’s so shocked by her words that he scoffs, and realizes that he’s done what he was afraid of earlier— he’s given it away.

If Natasha makes anything of it, it doesn’t show. She rubs the back of Steve’s knuckles. “We all want to find him, Steve. It wouldn’t hurt to trust us a little,” she murmurs.

Steve nods, doesn’t refute her words. Doesn’t say that trusting anyone hasn’t gotten him very far, these days.

“Give it time,” she says.

_I’ve given everything enough time_.


	8. but my saving often requires hiding

Steve wakes up from a dreamless sleep and feels completely exhausted. For the past two days, Steve did his best to coerce himself out of bed, move, get some endorphins in his system—create happiness out of sheer force of will.

Thankfully—and Steve realizes that he should probably unpack that sentiment—the world stays in one piece, and there’s no call to assemble.

He asks JARVIS to check if anyone is already in areas Steve plans on going. Exercise, cooking, he can deal with. Other people, not so much. 

“JARVIS, could you let me know when people are…” Steve pauses. “Close to my general person?”

“Of course, Captain. Shall I announce them?”

“No!” Steve says, whipping his head up to stare accusingly at the ceiling. (he stopped feeling silly about talking to the walls a long time ago). “Just be, you know. Casual about it.”

“Would you like me to clear my throat?” JARVIS sounded so damn _wry_, it startled a laugh out of Steve.

“Sure,” he said. “If you can manage it.”

In spite of this standing agreement with JARVIS, Steve has bumped into Tony thrice already, and—again, now, for the fourth time, spilling orange juice down his shirt.

“Oh fuck, sorry—”

Steve waves Tony away, walking briskly back to the elevator. He realizes, once inside, that he’s still holding his empty glass.

*

Steve showers, and while towelling off thinks that it would be nice to try and draw again, or at least stay somewhere in the tower with a different view of the city. Steve double checks with JARVIS about the emptiness of the library (“You’re sure.” “Perfectly.”) and heads down. It’s only seven in the morning, none of the other Avengers would be up at this time, anyway.

It feels like cheating to use Tony’s tech like this, but it’s not his fault JARVIS listens to him, does what he asks. _Technically_, Steve rationalizes,_ it’s Tony’s fault, really._

*

Steve falls into the strange focus afforded by creativity, so he doesn’t register JARVIS’ low cough. Instead, Steve’s hand stills over the page when he hears the doorknob turn, the door open.

Without even thinking about it, Steve knows it’s Tony. He knows all of them now, the way they walk, the sound of their steps on the concrete, the way they smell. It’s a mix of war and the serum: heightened senses and paranoia. 

“You sent Natasha to check on me,” Steve says. He knows he sounds surly, but doesn’t care.

Tony snorts. “While it’s an honor that you think I can get her to do anything, we both know that woman literally has otherworldly senses,” he says. He walks into the library and takes a seat on the couch beside Steve. “Did you talk to her?”

_No._ “Yes.”

Tony hums in response, turning his head this way and that as he surveys the room.

“I haven’t been here,” he says. 

“Ever?”

“I don’t think so,” Tony turns to Steve, smiles. “Not really my scene.”

“Then why did you—?” 

Tony shrugs. “Figured the rest of you losers would like it.”

Steve feels the inexplicable need to cry, shame and desire and sadness mixing up inside him. He looks away. 

They’re quiet for a moment, then Tony says, “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

Steve flinches at the hurt in Tony’s voice, and he turns to look at Tony as a series of responses form on his lips: _No I haven’t, I’ve been busy, you’re the one avoiding me. Please, let’s just not talk about this. _

But he settles on, “What did you expect?”

Tony bites his lip, stung. _Good_, Steve thinks, but it’s a pyrrhic victory at best.

Tony opens his mouth and Steve’s entire body goes rigid with the visceral need not to be here, not to hear what Tony has to say, not anymore. 

He stands up with a jolt, pencils and notebooks clattering on the floor. Steve’s movements are jerky, imprecise—all he’s thinking is, _go, go, go_.

Tony grabs Steve’s wrist and Steve’s brain quiets in a blink. “Please let me just—” Tony starts.

Steve feels the first tendrils of panic begin to snake their way up his legs, his arms. He takes a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself. It doesn’t help.

“Steve,” Tony has let go of his wrist and stands to rest his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve feels his breath getting shorter and shorter. 

“Steve?” Tony says, sharper now, but Steve can barely hear Tony’s voice. The sides of his vision are beginning to darken. Tony grips Steve’s shoulder. “Hey. _Hey_.” There’s a bit of panic now in Tony’s voice, a different panic from the one that has curled around Steve’s throat. 

“Don’t touch me,” Steve grinds out, his whole body feels both on fire and trapped in ice all at once.

“Okay, okay,” and before Tony can move, Steve wrenches away, crossing the distance from the couch to the door in the largest steps he can muster. 

He’s shaking, his breath is shallow, but somehow he still has the strength to slam the door shut when he leaves. Steve turns to the corridor—_ narrowing, narrowing _—and reaches blindly for the first door he sees and throws himself inside. 

Steve doubles over as he tries to catch his breath. He feels tears sliding down his face and focuses on what Bucky had taught him, all those years ago: breathe in through his nose, exhale through his mouth. Nonsense words are tumbling from his lips, all part and parcel of the entire exercise. 

It takes a few minutes until Steve feels some semblance of normal, and he sinks down to the floor, cradles his head in his hands. 

Someone clears their throat, and Steve nearly jumps out of his own skin.

Bruce is seated a few feet away from him, looking wry. “That should teach me about keeping my door unlocked,” he says dryly. Steve laughs, watery and soft.

“You okay? Should I call the others?” Bruce remains seated, knows to keep his gestures small.

“No, I’m fine,” Steve answers, words backed up by the stubborn belief that if he says it enough, it’ll eventually be true.

“Sure,” Bruce draws out the word, disbelief evident in his tone. “That happen often?”

“No,” Steve lies.

Bruce furrows his brow. “You seemed to know how to deal with it,” he presses.

“It used to happen before,” Steve says, and there’s enough truth in that statement to do the trick. No one needs to know how often, or why, or who taught him how to deal with these attacks.

“Okay,” Bruce says, and relief floods through Steve’s body. Steve lets out a huff of breath and stands to leave, a small part of him horrified that Bruce has seen him this way.

Bruce stands from the couch, as well. “Steve,” he says, “we can talk, if you want.” It’s a last-ditch effort, Steve can tell.

“I know. Thanks,” Steve says, and turns to the door.

Behind him, Bruce sighs audibly. “Lock it, will you?” he says, trying for humor, now.

Steve nods dumbly, turns the lock in the knob, and goes.

*

Steve lies flat on his back, counting the lines on his ceiling, giving his brain the most miniscule activity to keep himself occupied, and get somewhere close enough to calm.

There are two quick knocks on his door, and then Steve hears footsteps leading away. Steve opens the door and finds his pencils and sketchbook placed neatly on the floor. It registers somewhere in the back of his mind that Tony had picked all of these things up and brought it over, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t want to. 

Fully committed to giving up on the rest of the day, Steve picks up his things and drops them haphazardly on the bed. He goes back to staring at the ceiling, continuing from where he’d stopped counting.

*

Eventually his curiosity gets the best of him and picks up his sketchbook, flipping idly through the pages until he’s met by a wall of text, a messy scrawl of writing that wasn’t his—he never wrote on this notebook.

Steve spreads the sketchbook flat on his bed, eyes drawn immediately to the name signed on the bottom of the page. 

His heart seizes up in his chest. It’s from Tony.

Steve begins to read Tony’s letter, surprised at the neat, squared penmanship. 

“Steve—I’m sorry about earlier. And the night before. And a whole shit ton of things. And for writing on your notebook, too, I guess. I should just send you an email.”

“Or whatever. I’m here now so I might as well. I figure I’ll leave you free reign over the tower for a bit.” There are words scratched out.

“I wanted to talk to you to explain why” a thick dark line crosses out the statement. “I’ve been doing my own digging, about HYDRA and SHIELD and Zola and Barnes. There’s a lot to unpack. Do you know we’re one loser who lives in his mom’s basement with too much time on his hands away from the whole world finding out The Winter Soldier probably killed JFK? Don’t answer that. I didn’t realize writing, like, hand writing, was so cathartic.”

“Anyway it’s a lot. But like I said, we’re here, whatever you need. I sincerely have no idea how I’d be dealing with this if it were, I don’t know, Rhodey or something. Like what the hell. Really. Okay so the point has run away from me.”

“The point is. I realized a few months ago that we were actually friends. Real friends. And I” a word is so heavily scratched out that when Steve checks, it’s bled onto the next page. “treasure our friendship a great deal. I want you to know that whatever happens, I’m here. I have your back. We’ll find Bucky, whatever it takes.”

Steve stares, blinks, and continues to stare. Tony’s signature follows, a large scrawl on the page. What did Tony try to erase? Steve hates himself for not staying and just hearing Tony out, back in the library. Thinks that maybe he would have heard a much less edited version of the words on the page.

He sighs and flips the notebook shut.


	9. somewhere you are actual; happen to me there

Steve wakes up with a jolt, surprised at himself for having fallen asleep. The last thing he remembers is staring at his ceiling, mulling over Tony’s letter. Was it all a dream? The library, the panic attack, the knock on his door. He finds his sketchbook on the bed beside him and flips it open, carding through the pages, wincing as he catches glances of his rough sketches of Tony, until he finds Tony’s letter.

So it was real, he thinks with a sudden chill. 

Well. If there’s one thing he’s grateful for, it’s that Tony didn’t mention the drawings: Tony’s hands, Tony’s mouth, Tony’s back. 

“JARVIS, time?”

“It is four in the morning.” As if sensing Steve’s next question, JARVIS adds, “Sir is currently in the workshop.”

Steve furrows his brow at the ceiling. “Okay, I wasn’t going to ask,” he says, feeling infinitesimally defensive at the implications of JARVIS’ statement.

JARVIS, meanwhile, remains silent.

_This is ridiculous_, Steve thinks. There’s a part of him that just wants to hear the words from Tony’s mouth. After all this time, he’s never said no, never said he _didn’t want_ Steve, and maybe he doesn’t mean to flirt and touch all the time but he still _does_ and that’s reason enough to hope, isn’t it?

Steve rests his hands on his hips as he stands in front of his closet, looking at his options. Something casual? Something… not casual?

Above him, JARVIS coughs politely.

“Who’s coming?” Steve asks, pulling out the first shirt he sees and throwing it on. 

“Sir seems done for the morning and will be going to the penthouse soon,” JARVIS says, just as Steve hurriedly slides into a pair of jeans.

“Oh.” Steve deflates. “Okay.”

“It usually takes sir a while to wrap up, though,” JARVIS adds.

Steve perks up immediately and heads towards the door.

“You and I are going to have a talk later,” Steve says, before running to the elevator.

*

Steve enters the empty workshop and drags both hands down his face, annoyed at how hopeful he had previously felt. Maybe the universe wanted him to survive, wanted Bucky to survive, wanted them all to be alive, but it certainly never wanted Steve to get to talk to Tony properly.

He turns as he hears a door open, and Tony steps out of a small room, wiping his hands.

“Steve?”

“Hi,” Steve says, and wonders faintly if he’s trembling. He feels like he’s trembling.

“Hi,” Tony answers slowly, chucking the towel he was using into a bin and making his way over to Steve. “What’s happening?”

“Thanks for dropping off my stuff, yesterday,” Steve says, and he’s buying time, he knows.

“You’re welcome.” Tony turns away to look for something on the workbench. So, it’s not just Steve buying time.

“I—I read your note,” Steve adds, hesitant even if he’s the one who wanted to come here, wanted to talk in the first place.

“Okay,” Tony says noncommittally. He continues to push tools around on the desk, and doesn’t look at Steve.

“Why not, Tony?” Steve asks, and this is it, this is the culmination of every single fragile moment in Steve’s life.

Tony turns to face Steve sharply, thrown by the question and by his tone. They stare at each other for a moment.

“Oh, Steve.” Tony sounds tired, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I—do you remember what you told me before, about Zola and the car accident?” Tony lifts himself to sit on the workbench, kicking his feet against the metal.

Steve moves toward Tony, then leans his hips against the bench opposite him. “Yeah. Changing history, right? Why?” Steve feels off-balance, surprised by the change in the conversation, and unsure if he’s happier for it.

“What if you were right?”

“Right about what?”

“What if they did make a serum, what if my dad succeeded?”

“HYDRA would have a lot more to gain by keeping Howard alive for him to make more of it though, right?”

“Unless he didn’t want to make more. So they took what he had.”

“I don’t understand where you’re going with this,” Steve admits, and realizes that he’s instinctively taken a more guarded stance, arms crossed over his chest. He puts them down and rests his hands against the workbench.

“What if HYDRA killed my parents?” Tony asks, and he’s looking at Steve, but not really. 

Steve feels his body tense up: his mouth opens and shuts on its own accord, his brain trying and failing to come up with something to say. 

“What?” he finally manages.

“I know, why would they, right? But then again, looking at everything we have right now. What if they did?”

“Tony, that’s, that’s terrible.” Steve can’t even begin to wrap his head around how Tony feels, what Tony’s thinking. Shame burns hot in his body; he didn’t even realize that Tony was grappling with these thoughts, and he hadn’t told Steve—“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Tony shrugs, as if regretting bringing this all up in the first place. “Being real, I don’t know why I’m bringing it up now. There are too many things we still don’t know. I didn’t want to say anything preemptively.”

Steve reflects on this, runs a hand through his hair as if it’ll help tame the thoughts running amok in his brain. “Maybe Bucky would know,” he says, and it’s a strange thing to say, to even consider: _Hey Bucky, would you know who assassinated Howard and his wife?_

Tony stares at Steve, his jaw tight. “What if—?”

Steve cuts Tony off. “No.”

Tony sighs. “This is why.” His voice is small, eyes downcast. 

“It wasn’t Bucky,” Steve says, adamant. “It can’t. He wouldn’t.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Tony asks, incredulous. “How can you say what he would or wouldn’t do?”

“There were literally hundreds, maybe thousands of HYDRA agents, we don’t know it was him!” 

“And we don’t know it wasn’t! The only reason you’re not even considering the possibility is—”

“Tony, stop.” 

Thankfully, Tony does. It feels strange, to be in this space again, to have this kind of conversation with Tony where they’re talking _at_ each other, rather than_ to, _neither of them wanting to let up.

Tony’s looking away, staring outside the window, and Steve reaches out and touches his knee, trying to ground him, to bring him back. Tony turns to face Steve, exhaustion plain on his face.

“Steve,” he says, as he gently pushes away Steve’s hand, “I—I was afraid to find out how you’d react. And this is what I—” Tony sighs again. “I can’t. I can’t just stand by and watch you lie to yourself about Bucky.”

“I’m not lying to myself,” Steve snaps. “We just don’t have the whole picture!”

“He tried to kill you!” Tony slams his hands against the workbench, sending a loud, resounding clang around the room. “You almost died,” he says, and he’s standing now, breathing hard, almost chest to chest against Steve.

Then, all at once, Steve watches the anger leave Tony’s body. “We can’t do this.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve says, resolve melting out of him as well.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Tony says, hand on Steve’s chest, motioning for space. 

Steve doesn’t budge. Instead, he reaches up and holds Tony’s hand in place.

Steve thinks of Tony’s presence, of all the times he’d pushed Tony away, of all the times Tony had found him. It dawns on him, all at once: “I didn’t mean to keep running away.”

“All those times, I kept thinking I was running to find Bucky. Turns out, I was running away, too.” Steve swallows, blanching at the words tumbling out of his mouth. “I was—I was running away from my own pain, running away from being vulnerable. And all those times, Tony, I kept running into you.”

Tony lets out a disapproving huff of breath.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Steve tightens his grip on Tony’s hand, and frowns.

Tony wrenches his hand out from under Steve’s as he gestures wildly. “I’m not Bucky!” He says, as if exasperated by the very idea of having to spell things out. “I can’t just be your comfort person while you’re looking for the real thing. I—I don’t know everything about you, about your asthma or your temper, about when to fight and when not to, I can’t just be a comfort when you need me, I can’t—”

Steve cups Tony’s face, and Tony’s mouth clicks shut. 

“I don’t want you to replace Bucky,” he says, gently. 

“Well there you go, then!” Tony snaps, indignant.

“Tony,” Steve whispers, tilts Tony’s head up, forcing Tony to meet his eyes. “I want you. Just you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Give me some credit,” Steve says. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been saying this for a while, now.” Tony shakes his head, dismissing Steve’s attempt at levity.

“I can’t help fix you, Steve,” Tony says, and looks away again, moving his jaw away from Steve’s palm. “I can barely fix _me _, for fuck’s sake.” 

“We’ll do it together, Tony. If you’ll let us.”

Tony frowns.

“All those times you said you’d be here—Tony, let me be here, too. With you.” Steve tips his forehead forward and rests it against Tony’s. Tony breathes out and closes his eyes.

They stay in that position for a while, Steve’s hand resting against the back of Tony’s neck, breathing the same air.

“You’re unbelievable,” Tony finally says. He raises his hands and plants them squarely on either side of Steve’s face, tilting his head gently so now they’re nose-to-nose. “Are you sure about this?”

“Are you joking?” Steve asks, hesitant, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Tony leans in and presses his lips against Steve’s, and Steve very nearly jumps back in surprise.

“Did you seriously think I didn’t—?” Tony asks, drawing back. Steve reaches out for him instinctively, pulls him close into a hug.

“How could I think otherwise?” Steve asks, burying his face into the crook between Tony’s neck and shoulder, afraid that the moment will end, afraid that this is all a dream.

Tony tightens their embrace. “Sorry,” he mumbles into Steve’s chest.

“I love you,” Steve whispers fiercely into Tony’s skin.

Tony huffs out a laugh, his breath warm against Steve’s skin. “I know, I know.” Tony shifts a bit, presses a soft kiss against Steve’s neck. They hug in silence for what feels like forever, and Steve relishes every second of it.

Steve feels Tony’s body begin to relax, and just as he’s about to open his mouth, Tony says, “Can we talk about the rest of this in the morning?” 

Tony yawns, and begins to untangle himself from Steve’s embrace. “I’m tired.”

“It is morning, but okay,” Steve says, and he tries not to sound too happy. Tony flops down onto the couch.

Steve looks at Tony, eyes shut and boneless, and feels a surge of courage as he bends down to press a kiss on Tony’s forehead. 

Tony cracks an eye open and grabs a fistful of Steve’s shirt. “Come,” he grumbles, tugging Steve down. Steve bites back a grin, and moves Tony around so there’s enough space for the both of them. Tony lifts his head, and Steve extends his arm, offering it up as a pillow. 

“You’re sure you want this,” Tony says, finally settling in and pushing his nose against Steve’s chest.

“Yes,” Steve says, fondness creeping into his tone as he presses another kiss to Tony’s forehead. “Yes.”

He’s lulled to sleep by the sound of Tony’s even breaths.


	10. let me look at your face and see a heaven worth having

Steve wakes up to Tony’s warm body still curled around him and Steve smiles so widely, his cheeks ache. He shifts a bit, noticing a crick beginning to form on his shoulder, and the movement wakes Tony up.

It takes a few seconds of Tony getting his bearings before he looks at Steve, and Steve is momentarily struck by how handsome Tony is, this up close.

“That really happened,” Tony says before turning his head away to yawn.

“It did,” Steve smiles, fond. “Do you want to grab breakfast?”

“Coffee,” Tony mumbles, and yawns again.

“Is that a yes?” Steve asks, using his body to keep Tony pinned down on the couch.

“Yes,” Tony snipes. “Now if you don’t move so I can get up, I’m going back to sleep.”

*

In the elevator, Tony reaches out and holds Steve’s hand. There’s a part of Steve that’s still afraid that he’ll say something and all of this will go away, so he smiles at Tony tentatively, and notices a slight dusting of pink on Tony’s cheeks.

“Tony, are you—”

“Shut up,” Tony grumbles, but tightens his grip on Steve’s hand, grounding him.

There’s already a pot of coffee waiting for them in the kitchen. Tony lets go of Steve’s hand immediately upon seeing the coffee and pours himself a cup, moaning softly after his first sip. He takes a seat on one of the bar stools by the counter and drinks quietly, and Steve’s used to this version of Tony, too, decaffeinated and inattentive.

Steve pulls out a pan, digs around the refrigerator for eggs, and then pours a cup of coffee. He mixes in two teaspoons of brown sugar and wordlessly places it in front of Tony, just as he downs the last dregs of his first cup.

Tony looks up at Steve, surprised for a second, before raising the cup to his lips and taking an experimental sip. Tony’s eyes are bright, and the midday sun streaming through the windows makes the browns in Tony’s eyes lighter than they are. Steve smiles at him before he turns back to the stove, and cracks open two eggs. As they fry in the pan, he pops a few slices of bread into the toaster.

“You know how I like my coffee,” Tony says, voice filled with slight wonder.

“What, like it’s hard?” Steve sasses. 

Behind him, Tony lets out a startled laugh: “Was that a—”

“Yes, Natasha made me watch it.” 

“She would.”

Steve cooks in silence, and eventually, Tony deposits his two empty mugs into the sink and moves to stand beside Steve, bumping their hips together. Steve transfers the cooked eggs into a plate, and the toaster dings. Tony takes an empty plate and busies himself with stacking the toast.

Steve cracks open another egg, and casts a glance to the kitchen door, checking to see if there’s anyone in the living room outside. He takes a breath to steady himself. Tony is standing beside him again, watching Steve cook with some interest. Everything about this is familiar; he’s cooked for Tony before. But this feels different, like they’re teetering on the edge of something new.

“Tony,” Steve starts, and Tony lifts his eyes up so they meet Steve’s. “I want you to know that for the longest time, I thought that finding Bucky would fix everything—myself included.” Steve pauses, and Tony nods at him, chewing his lip.

“I guess after almost a year of looking, of me just—you know. I know now that it won’t fix everything. I’m not even sure it will fix_ anything_, really. But finding Bucky shouldn’t be about fixing, in the first place.” Steve exhales. “I just wanted you to know that.”

Tony nods again. “Well, you came to that much faster than I did,” he smirks, nudging Steve as he motions at the egg, the whites browning and crisp at the edges now. Steve moves to the dining table, and Tony brings along the toast, sitting across Steve.

“So we’re really doing this, huh,” he says as he dribbles ketchup onto his egg. Steve watches him and makes a face, which Tony catches and rolls his eyes in response.

“What do you mean by ‘this’?” Steve asks, taking a bite of his toast.

“This—this feelings conversation over breakfast.”

“You’re the one who wanted to take a nap midway.” Steve shrugs.

“Am I wrong to have hoped that we’d just wake up and act as if everything was resolved already?” Tony grumbles.

“What do you call this, then?” Steve snorts, gesturing at their plates, their half eaten breakfast.

Tony leans back into his chair and stretches his legs out under him, and continues to slide down the seat until his chest is flush against the table and he can comfortably scoop food into his mouth. Steve watches him, confused. “Are you trying to be gross on purpose?”

“Just want to make sure that you know what you’re really getting into,” Tony teases, but continues to keep his posture. 

Steve sighs, and tamps down hard on the nerves that had spooled together in his stomach the night before: _What if Tony changes his mind? What are we even supposed to do? _

“Oh,” Tony says, as if realizing something. 

Steve looks up at him, and only then notices that his own eyebrows had knitted together in thought. 

Tony pushes himself up to sit properly on the chair. “Shit. Steve,” he reaches over the table to wrap a hand around Steve’s wrist.

Above them, JARVIS coughs delicately.

“J? Did you just _cough?_”

JARVIS answer is undercut by Thor waltzing into the kitchen, Natasha in tow. Natasha’s gaze immediately zeroes in on Tony’s hand on Steve’s wrist, and Steve pulls away, as if electrocuted.

Tony’s head snaps to face Steve at the movement, and an emotion crosses his face too quickly for Steve to identify.

“Hi boys,” Natasha drawls, completely nonchalant as she lifts herself up to sit on the table beside Steve. Thor, meanwhile, disregards them as he digs through a cupboards, looking for food.

Tony shrugs in response, and goes back to eating his food. Steve has lost his appetite. Natasha, as if noticing this, leans over and uses Steve’s half-eaten toast to sop up the runny yolks on his plate.

“Have it,” Steve says, standing up quickly and wincing at the sound of the chair scraping across the wood. He feels Tony’s eyes on him as he leaves the kitchen, but doesn’t turn to check.

*

“I’m getting pretty tired of this, Rogers,” Tony says as he enters Steve’s room without preamble.

Steve stops pacing to look at Tony. “What?”

“You said last night that you wanted to stop running away. And now, it’s the first thing you do when people—our people, not like, whoever people, by the way—see me touching you? What’s that about?”

Steve takes a step back, Tony’s words landing hard like a slap to the face. “It’s not like flicking a switch,” he says, trying his best to be level-headed, afraid of what he might say if he isn’t.

Tony lets out a growl of frustration and crosses the room towards Steve. Steve doesn’t mean to, but only realizes he’s been backing away until his back hits the wall. Tony makes a move to touch Steve, to reach out, but stops, balling his hand into a fist and biting into it.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he says, his voice muffled by his fist.

“I don’t mean to,” Steve answers honestly. He tries to keep his breath in check; half of him wants to run away, and the other half wants to press up against all of Tony.

“Tell me what you want, Steve,” Tony says, and his hand goes up to his chest, a familiar motion, except he’s rubbing at what isn’t there. 

Steve reaches out to still the movement. “You,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Tony prods, and he moves a bit closer to Steve now.

“I—” He’s wanted this for so long, but he’s never learned the words for desire. “I’m afraid I’ll say something wrong,” Steve whispers. 

Tony nods, touches a finger to Steve’s jaw, and leans up to press a kiss to his lips. Steve startles, but doesn’t move away.

“I’m sorry,” Tony whispers, breath hot against Steve’s mouth. “It’s my fault that you’re feeling this way.”

_What way?_ Steve wants to ask; how could Tony have pinpointed anything when Steve himself can’t figure out his emotions?

Tony crowds up against Steve, pressing their bodies together. “I made you feel like I didn’t want you,” he continues to whisper, and Steve’s having trouble focusing on the words, his mind short circuiting at the feel of Tony flush against him.

“Do you want me to tell you what I want?” Tony asks, and he sounds shy, and Steve furrows his brow at Tony: _What would Tony have to be shy about?_

“Of course,” he says, and he’s surprised by how sure his tone is. 

Tony raises his hand and traces the curve of Steve’s ear. “I want to be able to kiss you whenever I want,” he says, eyes following the movements of his hands. Steve stares, and stares, and stares, too dumbstruck to do anything else.

“I want to be able to feel your body against mine whenever I want,” Tony says, and his voice is so soft, Steve has to incline his head forward to hear properly. Tony takes his as an invitation to cup his jaw. “And I want you to feel free to do any of that to me, too,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Steve’s cheek. “I want all of you.”

Steve nods and exhales shakily. 

“Kiss me?” Tony asks sweetly, his eyes fluttering up from Steve’s lips to meet his yes. Steve feels a flush rise to his cheeks, and raises his hand to cradle the base of Tony’s skull. Steve takes a moment to look at Tony, to really, really look at him, before leaning in to press their lips together. 

The kiss starts off chaste, and then Steve finally remembers his hands, which he moves to rest on Tony’s hips, unsure whether to push or pull. 

Tony, meanwhile, snakes a hand around Steve’s waist, warm against his lower back. His hand, still on Steve’s jaw, tilts Steve’s head to part his mouth open. 

They kiss languidly for a while, hands sliding up each other’s sides, each other’s arms, exploring. Steve takes his cues from Tony—despite the heady rush of want, he’s somehow still afraid that if he moves too quickly, Tony’ll run away again.

Steve feels the heat of Tony’s body against his, and Tony shifts, and _oh_. Arousal zings through Steve’s body, lighting up the tips of his fingers down to his toes. Tony moans, grinding his hips against Steve’s.

“Steve.” Tony sounds close to whining. He bites Steve’s lower lip, making Steve moan. “_Steve_,” he says again, more urgently now.

“What?” Steve wants to laugh at how nervous he feels, but he can’t, his heart hammering too hard against his chest.

“Bed,” Tony’s lips brush against his as he speaks, and it keeps sending sparks straight down to Steve’s belly. 

Steve obliges, pushing against the wall, meaning to walk to the bedroom and resume there, but Tony isn’t having it. He kisses Steve, his hands firmly on Steve’s waist, holding him against him.

Steve smiles into the kiss—he can’t help it. _So this is what it’s like to be wanted._He walks them back slowly toward the bedroom, their knees knocking against each other, hips bumping into tables and chairs.

They fall clumsily onto the bed, and Tony pulls away, both hands firmly on Steve’s chest. He looks down at Steve and Steve is momentarily breathless at the sight: Tony’s pupils are blown, his hair dishevelled, his lips pink. Steve reaches up and touches Tony’s face.

“Hi,” Tony says, sounding tentative and shy, again.

“Hey,” Steve rasps, his throat dry from a mix of arousal and disbelief.

“What do you want?” Tony asks.

Steve pushes himself up so Tony’s seated on his lap, their faces only a few inches away from each other. Steve worries at his lip. “Tony, what do _you_ want?” he asks. He’s afraid for the answer, and honestly doesn’t know what he wants to hear, anyway.

Tony raises a hand to caress Steve’s face. “What do you mean, what do I want?” He laughs warily.

Steve frowns. “I mean, what do you want?”

“I’m—maybe we shouldn’t be in this position if we’re going to talk like this,” Tony says, suddenly cautious.

Steve rests his hands on the bed, on either side of Tony’s knees. At this point, he’s at his wits’ end, too tired to try and puzzle out what Tony’s thinking. 

So he finally asks: “Do you want me?”

He may not have had an answer in mind, but a laugh certainly wasn’t what he’d expected. Tony’s shaking with laughter, his eyebrows up in surprise. “Of course I want you!” Tony exclaims, hands gripping Steve’s shoulders.

Steve wants so hard to believe him it hurts.

The realization dawns on Tony just as quickly; his laugh stops midway and he peers closer at Steve. “You’re kidding, right? I thought earlier—” Tony drags a hand across his face, clearly frustrated. “Steve,” he says, looking at Steve again.

“Tony,” Steve answers.

“I love you,” Tony says, and he makes it sound so _simple_, as if it should be common knowledge by now. Steve lets out a shaky breath.

“I think I’m going to cry,” he says, and it’s a strange thing be so acutely aware of and at the same time so powerless to stop.

Tony presses his forehead against Steve’s. “Fuck,” he says. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Steve shuts his eyes. He hasn’t felt this way in a while, floaty and away from himself, but that’s how he feels just as tears begin to slide down his cheeks.

Tony thumbs a tear away, then places a kiss on its path. “Sorry,” he mumbles again, and does the same for the other cheek.

“It’s okay,” Steve whispers, even if it’s not, not really, not yet at least, it’s just—“It’s okay.”

“Steve,” Tony sounds so pained, and Steve opens his eyes to check.

“I’ve loved you since—since Ella Fitzgerald on the balcony. You remember? After you vomited on my shoes,” Tony says, offering Steve the smallest of smiles.

“I didn’t vomit on your shoes,” Steve tries for indignance, but it comes out weak, watery.

“I just didn’t tell you,” Tony leans in to whisper conspiratorially, as if it isn’t just the two of them in the room. “Didn’t want to embarrass you,” he adds.

Steve lets out a small, wet laugh, self-conscious at the memory.

“I was trying to show you,” Tony’s voice shifts, becomes softer, gentler. “I wanted to show you how much I care,” he says. “I’m sorry if that didn’t come across.”

“Why didn’t you want me,” Steve asks, and he knows he sounds pitiful and he hates it, but he can’t bring himself to stop, either.

Tony presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead, then to each cheek. “I was scared,” he admits.

Steve stares at him, shocked. “What, because of Bucky?”

Tony looks away and licks his lips. “Yes,” he sighs. “That and, well. By how much I felt?” Tony shakes his head. “That sounds gross.”

A startled laugh bubbles out of Steve: “Gross is good,” he says, and means it.

There’s a glint in Tony’s eye when he says, “Oh really? You want me to be gross? Want me to talk about how I dreamt about you, or thought about you all the time?”

“Did you?” Steve asks wonderingly.

Tony’s face falls. “I’m. I don’t have to answer that.”

Steve smiles, big and bright. “You did.”

“Am I the only one getting whiplash at the pace of our conversations?” Tony says, placing his hands on Steve’s shoulders and motioning to get off Steve’s lap. Steve’s hands snap to Tony’s hips, keeping him there.

“Tell me,” Steve says. “Please?”

“I—” Tony tries to shake away, but it’s a half-hearted thing. “I really—can we go back to kissing?”

“After,” Steve says, pulling Tony close and wrapping his arms around his waist. “Tell me,” he prods.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Steve.”

“Tony,” Steve says, butting his head gently against Tony’s chest.

“I love you,” Tony says.

“I love you, too.” Steve smiles into Tony’s shirt.

Tony places a hand on the back of Steve’s neck, pulls him close to kiss the top of his head. “I feel like we’re going about this backwards,” he says to Steve’s hair.

“So you only started loving me after that night...” Steve’s words are muffled against Tony’s chest.

“You really won’t let that go, will you?”

Steve pulls away to rest his chin against Tony’s sternum, lifts his eyes to meet Tony’s. “I thought you’d be used to my stubbornness by now.” he says, smiling up at him. 

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Tony says, and leans down for a kiss. “But since you keep asking,” Tony trails off, raising a finger to his chin. 

“Well. You didn’t make it easy,” he says. “I think we hated each other for a while.”

“Hate’s a big word,” Steve chides.

“Well we certainly didn’t _like _each other for a while, then. Happy?”

“Could be happier.”

Tony raises an eyebrow at him. “I could be giving you the best head of your life, but you’re the one who wants to talk.”

Steve sticks out his tongue.

“See! God, if anyone could see this right now.” Tony sighs dramatically, but it’s undercut by the gasp Steve elicits by sliding a hand under Tony’s shirt. “Captain America plays dirty!” he crows.

“Continue,” Steve says placidly, rubbing circles on Tony’s back. It feels so new, to be able to touch him like this.

“Well. Eventually, after a lot of time and effort,” Tony looks at Steve meaningfully, “I started liking you, and spending time with you. It got to a point that I’d ask JARVIS where you were.” 

“And steal my clothes,” Steve teases.

“It was one time,” Tony grouses. “And it’s your fault you leave your shit lying around.” 

Steve rolls his eyes fondly. It’s nice, he realizes, to be able to be open with Tony like this.

“Anyway—it was nice, seeing you opening up to everyone, settling in. I felt, well—I feel like I deserve some credit in that,” Tony says, raising a hand to card through Steve’s hair.

“The movie nights?” Steve asks.

“I never planned any of those things,” Tony admits. “But dancing to The Beatles...That was one of my genius moments, I think.”

Steve smiles up at him. “Yeah. That was nice.” Tony grins and presses a quick kiss on Steve’s nose. They’re quiet for a moment, content to breathe the same air.

“We really did go through. A whole thing,” Tony says, and quiets again as he thinks. “A surprise bonus was that I got to discover exactly how great an artist you are.”

Steve buries his face in Tony’s chest again as he feels a blush rise to his cheeks. “So you did see my sketches,” he says.

“I didn’t want to bring them up,” Tony says earnestly. 

“Oh yes, how magnanimous of you,” Steve grumbles.

Tony is silent for a moment. “It’s nice that we can joke about that now.”

“Getting there,” Steve agrees, and risks slipping another hand under Tony’s shirt. Tony huffs appreciatively and leans in to kiss him.

“So, is that enough?” Tony teases. “Have I earned the right to at least see you shirtless?”

Steve laughs and slides his hands up Tony’s back, hitching his shirt up. “You earned that right a long while back,” he says, lifting Tony’s shirt off him. 

Tony kisses him hungrily, and lets out a gleeful “Yay!” when Steve pushes him away gently as he removes his own shirt.

Tony kisses him again, their bare chests touching, and pushes Steve gently back down onto the bed.

“Now let’s go back to where we left off,” he says, “before we were so rudely interrupted by our feelings.”

Steve rolls his hips up against Tony’s, just to shut him up.

*

Steve wakes up to an empty bed, but it’s still warm, so it wasn’t empty for too long. Steve opens his eyes to confirm, and they land immediately upon a familiar shock of dark hair far enough from him that Steve is treated to the sight of Tony’s muscular back, Steve’s blanket draped over his hips artfully.

He inches forward until his chest is flush against Tony’s back, and he worms an arm around Tony’s waist. Steve smiles to himself as he presses a small kiss on Tony’s nape.

Tony grumbles. Steve continues to smile as he peppers Tony’s neck and back with kisses. He feels giddy and excited, and he pulls Tony closer against him.

“Early,” Tony says into the pillow, raising a hand to Steve’s wrist and using Steve’s hand to make small circles on his stomach. “Sleep.” His voice is soft.

“Who’d have thought,” Steve muses, “Tony Stark likes belly rubs.”

Tony shushes him and moves his hand back to being tucked under the pillow. Steve continues the movement, happy to just be touching him.

Steve presses his nose against the base of Tony’s skull, breathes in the scent of him. He lets himself fall into the halfway space between awake and asleep, until above them, the alarm blares. 

Tony groans.

Steve reaches over Tony to pick up his tablet, and flicks it on to scan through the report. He turns to kiss Tony’s shoulder.

“Come on, wake up,” he says, running a hand through Tony’s hair just for the sheer pleasure of doing it.

“_No_,” Tony whines.

Steve’s holding the tablet with both hands now, fully alert. “We’ve found Strucker.”

_ fin. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! i hope you liked it and i'd love to hear your feedback.
> 
> also, here are the credits for the chapter titles!  
Fic title: [Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors by Richard Siken](https://poets.org/poem/landscape-blur-conquerors)  
Chapter one:[The Opposite of Nostalgia by Eric Gamalinda](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/141991/the-opposite-of-nostalgia)  
Chapter two: [Snowshoe to Otter Creek by Stacie Cassarino](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53599/snowshoe-to-otter-creek)  
Chapter three: [1987 by Paul Guest](https://poets.org/poem/1987)  
Chapter four: [Five Moths by Carly Joy Miller](https://poets.org/poem/five-moths)  
Chapter five: [Saturday Afternoon by W. S. Di Piero](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46745/saturday-afternoon-56d226bb43099)  
Chapter six: [Ghazal by Edil Hassan](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/149507/ghazal-5c897d56794ab)  
Chapter seven: [Letting the Emptiness Become My Government byMarcus Jackson](https://poets.org/poem/letting-emptiness-become-my-government)  
Chapter eight: [We, Made of Bone by Mahtem Shiferraw](https://poets.org/poem/we-made-bone)  
Chapter nine: [As Far as Cho Fu Sa by Mookie Katigbak](https://exceptindreams.livejournal.com/185631.html)  
Chapter ten: [In the gloaming, in the roiling night by Ruth Awad](https://poets.org/poem/gloaming-roiling-night)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://firebrands.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/firebrandss)!


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